


feels so scary getting old

by d3anstiel



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Anxiety, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:57:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d3anstiel/pseuds/d3anstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Armin's junior year of high school begins, he finds himself facing the breaking point of his anxiety. Doing nothing to lessen his stress is the fact that he's incredibly, disgustingly in love with the best friend who has climbed through his bedroom window every night since they were in the sixth grade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i haven't written anything of notable length since i left the glee fandom, but here it fuckin goes kids
> 
> dedicated to laura samwinchester, my favorite eremin shipper and all-around a++ blogger. i'm sorry that armin is hipster trash in this (except i'm not actually)
> 
> let me just go ahead and warn for anxiety -- i am drawing from my own ongoing experiences with the pressures of academia, and this aspect of the story is very, very important to me. i have yet to see this sort of take on armin, and i find it all-too-plausible that, in a modern setting, his love of knowledge could become warped by the public education system and its emphasis on standards.
> 
> (title taken from "ribs" by lorde)  
> ((you can follow me at erwinslevi.tumblr.com))

“’ _I just don’t know what you’re thinking_ ,’” Armin intones quietly as he stares at his bedroom ceiling. Passenger hums from the stereo in the corner of the room, the volume low enough that his grandfather isn’t likely to storm in to ask what the hell he’s doing, listening to his shitty acoustic playlists at three o’clock on a school night.

 _School_. Armin groans and rolls over onto his side, fisting the front of his sweater with both hands. He’s been doing a good job of pretending that such a place didn’t exist, that he could replay the summer on an endless, sunny loop until next June.

Now, on the eve of his education’s recommencement, Armin’s stomach roils, a familiar sickness assaulting his already distressed state of mind; the sort of sickness that accompanies the several days before an important test, the kind of airless panic that precedes a public presentation. He thinks that this may be a record; the school year has yet to even begin, and he is already worried about wrecking his average for no apparent reason.

He feels guilty for the most fleeting of moments, for the same reason he rarely voices his concerns regarding his grades aloud to those around him. His four-point-oh serves as a consistent negation of his worries, especially when one considers the state of some of his friends’ report cards. Eren Jaeger, for instance, whose steady C-average would send Armin into a spiraling catatonia from which only promises of test retakes would coax him.

At that, Armin groans again, more loudly this time. He doesn’t want to think of Eren, either; he has been all night, his best friend being the sole inspiration for the playlist that is currently filtering Ellie Goulding throughout his small bedroom. It’s disgusting and terrible, and it makes him want to crawl under his blankets to live out his days in embarrassed solitude.

He’s still not entirely sure how, despite the utter horror of the situation, there is still a part of him that indulges in the fact that he is in love, a small voice in the back of his mind that sings along to the radio and practices articulating the feelings aloud. Armin wishes that were an exaggeration, but he often finds himself staring at absolutely nothing and wondering what words he could use to convey how completely and heartbreakingly _gone_ he is on his best friend.

“God,” Armin says, turning onto his back once more.

The music in the corner pauses abruptly, interrupted by the sound of his phone’s notification ringer. Armin pulls himself into a half-sitting position, still reclining on his elbows as he cocks his head curiously. He waits for the music to resume, and instead receives three more notifications. Huffing in resignation, he stands to go check his phone.

By the time he’s typed in his password, his phone has gone off twice more. He unlocks it, only to see Eren’s name and a few bubbles of text.

_can’t sleep_

_fuck forgot the summer reading_

_what is the great gastby about????_

_*gatsby_

_forget it. i’ll just ask mikasa_

Armin’s chest constricts warmly.

_go to ur window_

He can’t help the grin that spreads over his face. It isn’t even about his romantic inclinations – he’s just so, so grateful to have a best friend to text at this time of night, someone who is willing to share his company for even a short while. Such things had seemed an impossibility until he formally met Eren and his adoptive sister Mikasa in the sixth grade, after years and years of virtually ignoring each other in elementary school. Sometimes, he tries to remember what it felt like without their presence falling over him like a security blanket; it is neither an easy nor a pleasant exercise.

The phone rings again. _are you even awake?_

With a sigh, Armin hurriedly types out his reply (‘ _patience is a virtue!!_ ’) before turning to his window.

Eren stands behind the glass, clad in an oversized green hoodie and boxer shorts; if Armin had to guess, he’d wager that his feet are bare. Eren taps on the window twice and visibly huffs, looking around as if someone could be watching the ledge outside of the Arlert boy’s window at this ungodly hour. Armin almost laughs, but he reins it in for Eren’s sake as he crosses his room in three quick strides and slides the window open.

“Shit, that trellis gets harder to scale every year,” Eren says as he climbs into the room, his long limbs clumsily navigating the little room allowed by the sill. He still has the agility of a boy in the throes of puberty, having long been surpassed by Mikasa in that respect, and he nearly falls into Armin when he stands upright again.

Armin catches the other boy’s elbow to steady them, before brushing his disheveled blonde hair out of his face. “My grandfather said that he’s going to shoot you if he catches you climbing the side of the house again,” he tells Eren with mock sobriety, and then: “He doesn’t even own a gun.”

“Pops would never,” Eren says anyway, and he’s right.

Nodding, Armin takes a seat on his bed and leans against the wall. “Well, do you want to put in a movie? Or I could read to you for a while.” It’s something they’ve done in the past when neither of them could seem to rest, Armin’s soft voice soothing enough to lull them both to sleep.

Eren shakes his head and lies down next to him, letting his bare feet tangle in the messy bed sheets. “Can you just put on some music?”

Armin complies, climbing off of the bed and only blushing slightly when he sees that his sad acoustic playlist is still pulled up on his iPhone. He stares at it for a moment, considering, and then decides to just leave it. There’s a beat of silence for just a moment after he presses play, and then a soft piano melody begins sounding over the speakers. Eren hums in approval, and Armin looks over to see that his eyes are closed against the music as he lies back on the bed.

An instance of hesitation seizes Armin for a brief second as he looks at his best friend. His chest seems to swell to twice its size, and he feels warm, even despite the incessant anxiety that gnaws at the back of his mind. He smiles softly and drops back onto the comforter, scooting up until he and Eren are lying side by side.

Neither of them says anything for the longest time, content to doze in companionable calm. Armin leans into Eren’s warmth and Eren, who is always so reticent toward everyone else, welcomes the contact by slinging one arm over Armin’s stomach.

“Now sleep,” Eren finally says.

* * *

 

Armin’s alarm goes off at exactly seven the next morning, loudly enough that he and Eren both sit straight up and accidentally bang their heads together. Eren curses and Armin rubs his temples as the alarm repeats again, its high-pitched ring insufferably grating this at this hour. They slowly untangle themselves from the twisted sheets, though they still manage to land in a heap beside of the bed. Armin scrambles up as quickly as possible; Eren is not a morning person, a trait that he and Mikasa share, and he doesn’t want to be on the receiving end of an elbow to the nose before he’s even had a cup of coffee.

He roots through his drawers for a pair of leggings and a sweater nearly identical to the one he’s already wearing. Eren comes up beside of him to snatch a pair of jeans, and Armin would protest – he’s a few sizes smaller than Eren -- if it weren’t for the other boy’s half-lidded, distant gaze.

Twenty minutes later, they’re standing in the Arlerts’ driveway, both clutching steaming mugs of coffee. Armin rifles through his messenger bag for the keys to his well-loved Saturn Ion, managing to pull them from its depths just as Eren begins getting visibly impatient.

“Would you _hold on_?” Armin asks, balancing his coffee in one hand as he keys his door open and unlocks the rest of the car.

Eren huffs out a laugh and plops down into the passenger seat. “Mikasa’s getting a ride with Marco, so don’t bother waiting for her.”

“That’s,” Armin begins, brows furrowing, and doesn’t finish before Eren is nodding and waving a dismissive hand.

“I know. She’s been talking to Marco a lot lately. Jean, too, now that I think about it.” He pauses, a look of genuine contemplation crossing his features, before continuing. “I don’t like it.”

With a snort, Armin drops into his own seat and moves to start the car. “You don’t like _Jean_ , you mean.” He backs out of the driveway with practiced ease and flips the stereo on, watching the rearview mirror all the while. “Could you turn it to track seven for me?”

* * *

 

The hallways are even more crowded than usual with the first-day bustle. It takes them forever to find Mikasa where she’s talking to Marco in front of his locker, and she and Armin just barely manage to get Eren out of there before he can get into it with Jean, who smirks and leans against his own neighboring locker with his arms crossed. Armin grips Eren’s bicep with one hand and drags him along until they’re a safe distance away – safe enough, at least, that Jean can’t hear the creative names that spill from Eren’s mouth the moment Armin releases him.

“Eren,” Mikasa says warningly, looking around them. “You’d better be careful. Grisha will kill you if you get suspended for something as stupid as fighting Jean Kirschtein.”

Eren huffs and slides between his best friends, throwing his arms around their shoulders. “Relax. I’m not going to fight him in public.”

The other two share a long-suffering look just as the bell signaling first period rings.

Armin hitches his messenger bag further up on his shoulder, swatting at Eren’s arm where it lies, warm and inviting, across his back. “I’ve got to go,” he tells them, regret marring his tone. Part of him wants to stay, wants to walk around the halls with his best friends and be late to class for once; just the thought makes him cringe, though, and he grabs Eren’s hand from his shoulder before letting it drop.

“What do you have first?” Eren asks, peeking at Armin’s schedule where it has been taped to the front of the binder in his hands.

With a shudder, Armin clutches his books more closely to his chest. “P.E.” It’s a required course at their high school, one that he has avoided for as long as humanly possible, but the guidance counselor had insisted that he get it over with so that he can take whatever he wants during his senior year. Armin thought at the time -- and still thinks -- that that was a crock of shit, but it would seem that Mr. Dupree signed him up for first period physical education anyway.

“Oh, great!” Eren exclaims, glancing down at his own schedule, and Armin raises his eyebrows. “So do I!”

The other boy’s enthusiasm makes Armin’s heart thud just a little harder in his chest, and he reciprocates with a wide grin. “Thank god,” he says. “I thought that I was going to be spending the whole semester as last pick.”

Eren punches his arm as they begin the short walk to the gymnasium. “I can’t believe I’m gonna have to swap the ass-huggers for gym shorts, though,” he muses, reaching down to grab at said ass with both of his huge hands. “Where do you even find these clothes? Build-a-Bear?”

To his credit, Armin flushes only slightly. He tries to usher Eren along – people are staring at him, most likely wondering what the Jaeger boy is doing fondling himself in the middle of the hallway. Someone even whistles, which causes Eren to whip around in a complete circle to find the source of the noise. His face falls slightly when he fails to recognize who it was, and Armin stifles a snort in favor of tugging on the straps of the other boy’s backpack.

“You are unbelievable,” Armin admonishes him, though it’s mostly in jest. Eren just laughs.

Gym class is mostly uneventful, as it is; their teacher spends the whole period handing out safety guidelines and permission slips to be signed in order for the students to be able to use the limited equipment that the school offered. Armin only pays attention to half of it, something that he wouldn't allow himself were it any other class. Everyone sits cross-legged on the gym floor, and he and Eren are as close to one another as humanly possible. Eren's thigh is warm against his, even through their gym shorts, and the taller boy keeps muffling laughter in Armin's shoulder every time the teacher scolds Jean and Marco for talking in the back. The contact sets Armin's senses alight, and he is hyperaware of the other boy's every movement up until the moment the bell rings.

Armin has AP Geometry second period, and so he bids Eren goodbye at the gym doors, already dreading the number of syllabi that are likely to be handed out to him for the rest of the day. He absolutely hates hearing about midterms and finals on the first day, even if the tests themselves are mentioned only in passing. He finds math particularly nerve-wracking; there is less of a margin of error, he believes, than is allowed in a research paper or history project.

Even so, he is relieved to see Mikasa sitting at one of the back tables of Mr. Smith's geometry classroom. She offers up a small smile and waves as he comes to take the seat next to her.

"How was phys ed?" she asks when he has arranged his books on the table before him.

He idly straightens his stack of binders. "Fine," he replies.

Mikasa opens her mouth like she wants to say something, and is interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Smith.

"Good morning," Smith greets them, a tad stoically. "Welcome to AP Geometry. As I call roll, please take a textbook from the back of the room –“ he looks up for the first time to indicate the table nearest Armin’s left elbow, upon which two dangerously steep stacks of books have been placed, “ – and make your way back to your seat. You may sit wherever you’d like, as long as there are no immediate problems brought to my attention.”

Armin exchanges a quick glance with Mikasa, who mimes kicking him under the table. He grins and returns the gesture, her presence doing well to soothe the tension in his shoulders. Mikasa has always been good at keeping him grounded -- at keeping _anyone_ grounded, really, as even Eren is forced to rein in his more foolish impulses when she is around.

The three of them act as a balance for one other, he supposes, folding his hands in front of himself as Mr. Smith begins calling roll. Eren’s recklessness pacifies Armin’s neurosis, and Mikasa’s sense stops Eren in his tracks. It works for them, even if Armin has yet to figure what good his compulsive behavior serves the other two.

“Ackerman,” Mr. Smith says, his authoritative voice cutting through the low murmurs around them.

Armin registers the hush that has fallen over the room since the teacher’s arrival with no shortage of surprise; it had taken Coach Zacharias nearly twenty minutes to quiet his gym class this morning, and the contrast is stark. However, Armin thinks he may have a good idea of the reasoning behind his classmates’ silence when he takes a moment to look around. Over half of them, boys and girls alike, stare unabashedly at Mr. Smith, while the remaining students exchange tittering whispers behind their hands. Armin would roll his eyes, but he can hardly blame them – even Mikasa flushes slightly when she recites her book number and Smith grants her a small smile.

“Arlert,” Smith continues when Mikasa has reclaimed her seat, and Armin smooths his hands over the dull green fabric of his sweater as he stands.

Despite his bowed head, he can feel Mr. Smith’s eyes on him as he grabs a book and proceeds to the front of the room to give his book number. He just barely manages to meet Mr. Smith’s gaze as he reads, “Six twenty-three,” at a nearly inaudible volume. Teachers – especially new ones – make him ineffably nervous, and his uneasiness is only validated with Smith’s reply.

“I’ve heard good things from your Algebra teachers.” As he says it, he offers up a short, amicable nod, seeming to pick up on Armin’s uncertainty. “I expect that you’ll do well.”

Armin internally curses the entirety of the Algebra Department, but only bobs his head politely before turning to walk back to his seat. _Expect_ , he repeats in his mind, _expectations_.

He swallows a groan.

* * *

 

It is nothing short of a miracle that he and Eren share a lunch shift -- the third one, to be exact, which takes place an hour into Armin’s third period Spanish class. The sight of his best friend amid the bustling teenagers offers a welcome respite from sixty minutes of listening to the least enthusiastic children in the entire school absolutely butcher the pronunciation of basic Spanish words, and he hurries to Eren’s side.

“Hey,” Eren says, an easy smile twisting up the corner of his mouth. He lets his hand fall on Armin’s shoulder. “Are you buying today, then?”

Armin thinks longingly of the sandwich he left on the kitchen counter this morning. “I guess.”

They make it through the line with twenty minutes left to spare, trays laden with scoops of some unrecognizable pasta dish. Eren leads the both of them toward the table furthest from the kitchen, where Sasha Braus and Connie Springer sit, apparently deep in debate concerning the indistinguishable goop that has been heaped generously on their respective trays.

“Hi,” Sasha says as they approach, sniffing her fork before letting it drop back to her platter.

Connie makes a noise of disgust in the back of his throat. “I am a _growing boy_. I’m supposed to eat.” He sits back, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t understand what they expect me to do with this.”

“You could always pack your lunch,” Armin suggests, as he and Eren take the seats a few spaces down from the two of them.

With a snort, Sasha leans up over the edge of the table to pat Connie’s head in mock sympathy. “That would require getting up before seven-fifteen.”

“Literally fuck off, Sasha.”

“Are you volunteering?”

Eren huffs out a laugh and turns his back on the two of them so that he’s now facing Armin fully. “So how was Mr. Smith? I saw Mikasa right before third and she was still swooning.” Armin’s expression must seem doubtful, because he continues, “Well, you know. If Mikasa swooned. That’s what she was doing.” He pauses again, before adding, “I think.”

Shrugging, Armin idly stirs the food on his plate. “He was okay. I think I’ll like him.”

“That’s all? Everyone in the goddamn school leaves the class at half-mast and all you’ve got is _okay_?”

“What am I supposed to say?” Armin counters, throwing his hands up. He feels like Eren might be prying; they’ve never really discussed whether Armin is attracted to men or women or both or neither, though he knows it has been a topic of speculation among their group of friends. “’I wanted him to take me on his desk’? He’s a good-looking man, yeah, but I was thinking about geometry.”

“You were the only one, apparently.”

Eager to leave the subject of whom he does or does not find attractive, Armin asks, “So how’s the rest of your day been?”

It’s Eren’s turn to shrug, then. He leans toward Armin until their shoulders bump, flicking at the blond boy’s knee. “Fine. I wish we had more classes together, though.”

Armin nods in understanding. Eren is, first and foremost, his best friend, a space that even Mikasa can’t quite fill in his absence. He knows that Eren feels the same way when they’re apart, feels that incompleteness with just as much poignancy as he does. _Loneliness_ is the word that he would use if it didn’t sound so ridiculous when used in this context.

The rest of lunch passes with casual conversation about their classes. By the time the bell rings, they’re practically in one another’s laps, lazily flicking food, biting, pinching, engaging in the casual contact that Armin loves. It is abundantly clear that neither of them want to give up their comfortable position to return to class.

When the students around them begin milling out of the cafeteria, Eren finally untangles their legs. “Have fun in Español, I guess,” he says unenthusiastically. He stands, but hangs onto Armin’s sleeve for just a moment before letting go.

Armin squints up at him, a rueful smile on his face. “Have fun in chemistry.”

Eren just snorts.

* * *

 

Armin emerges from his bathroom that night in sweats, towel hung over his arm and hair already up in a loose ponytail. He thanks god for his state of dress when he sees that Eren is sitting on his bed, legs crossed and phone in hand, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth in apparent concentration.

“Yes, Eren, you can come over,” Armin says as he comes to a stop just past the bathroom doorway, mouth twisting up into an amused smile.

“Oh, shut up,” Eren replies without looking up, and it’s then that Armin realizes that Eren isn’t holding his own phone – he’s holding Armin’s.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Eren makes a frustrated noise and scrolls with fervor. “I’m looking for that one song you played last night. The one that was like, ‘lie down, take your clothes off, and let me stare.’”

Raising his eyebrows, Armin crosses over to the bed. “And you couldn’t have called?”

“Okay, I wanted to hang out, too.” He pauses, squinting at the screen. “Aha, your playlists!”

A surge of panic sends Armin lunging for the phone without a second thought. He lands with an _oof!_ across Eren’s abdomen, stretching up to snatch the phone from his best friend’s grasp. It comes away easily, as Eren has barely any time to react.

“Jesus Christ – Armin – what –“

Armin hurriedly taps the screen until it pulls his playlists up, before swiping left and deleting the one titled _Eren_. He winces as he does it – he’d compiled a considerable number of tracks, and he’s going to have a time redoing the mix later.

“Armin!”

“Yeah?” Armin asks, slightly breathless. He realizes, suddenly, that this must look incredibly suspicious. Picking himself up off of Eren’s lap, he brushes a few stray locks of hair out of his face, going for casual but, he knows, only coming off as evasive.

With an incredulous expression, Eren leans back against the wall. “Do you wanna explain?”

“I –“ Armin begins, and then cuts himself off before he can do anymore damage. “No.”

“No?”

“No.” Armin avoids his disbelieving stare. “It was just. Stupid. Embarrassing.”

“Oh,” Eren says, as if Armin has offered sufficient clarification. “Like, a make-out mix or something?”

Armin snaps his head up. “What?”

A sly grin spreads over Eren’s face, and he nudges Armin’s side in a conspiratorial way. “You know…” He winks. “Like some songs to make out to. Slow jams.”

Flushing, the shorter boy scoots away. “Oh my god.”

“Who are you kissing, Armin Arlert?” Eren asks, poking at Armin’s stomach through his t-shirt. “Who’s devouring those pouty lips to the tune of Bon Iver?”

His prodding evolves into full-on tickling, sending Armin into a fit of gasping laughs interspersed with protests and half-formed pleas. Eren falls on top of him in the process, knocking their foreheads for the second time today. They both cry out, and Eren slumps forward until his face is pressed into the junction between Armin’s neck and shoulder, causing Armin to tense almost imperceptibly. The other boy releases a sharp laugh into his skin.

That drives Armin absolutely _wild_ , and the situation only worsens when Eren pulls back just enough to look him in the eyes, smirking as if he were challenging Armin to fight back.

Eren must realize that something is off when Armin doesn’t speak for nearly thirty seconds. His brows furrow slightly, and he leans forward a bit. “Armin…?”

“I have homework,” Armin breathes, and they’re so close, they’re _so close_. Two inches and it could all be over; two inches and he’d know what he’s been missing.

Concern clouds Eren’s features. “Wait –“

“I have to – I have things to do, Eren, you can’t hang out.” Armin pushes at the other boy, whose hands come to grip his wrists, pinning him to the bed.

“Is something wrong?” Eren asks worriedly, and then his eyes widen. “Did _I_ do something wrong?”

“Eren, get the _fuck_ off of me,” Armin says, and is met with no resistance when he pushes again, sending Eren sprawling backward onto the pillows. Armin’s chest heaves up and down with exertion and fear, with the knowledge of how close he just came to kissing his best friend.

“Armin.” The name is uttered with a mixture of surprise and hurt.

“I have homework,” he replies, even though it’s a very obvious lie.

With a weak, fabricated quirk of his lips, Eren props himself up on his elbows. “It’s only the first day.”

Sighing, Armin puts his face in his hands. “I want to get ahead. I just. I have things to do.”

Eren climbs off of the bed. “Okay,” he says, and there’s still a tangible trace of hurt in his tone.

Armin wants to grab hold of his shirtsleeve and keep him from going, pull him back onto the bed and let him know that he hasn’t done anything wrong, press kisses to his jaw and soothe his worries. He wants to do all of those things, but instead he watches as Eren walks toward the window, gait uncharacteristically stiff.

One foot on the sill, Eren pauses and looks back at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and there’s just enough of a question in it to make Armin’s chest ache. He nods, once, and starts to climb out onto the ledge.

“’Catalyst,’” Armin says suddenly, remembering the reason Eren came over in the first place.

Eren turns back toward him. “What?”

“The song,” Armin begins lamely, and regrets speaking up in the first place. “It’s ‘Catalyst’ by Kyla La Grange.”

There’s a long moment where Armin wonders whether or not Eren knows what he’s talking about, but then the other boy bobs his head in understanding. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks,” Eren tells him, and it sounds so unlike him that Armin can’t even reply as his best friend climbs out of his window and disappears from sight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the kudos you guys!!! i would've put this up yesterday but i've been in an evangelion coma for like 72 hours and there's really nothing to be done about that
> 
> this chapter gets a little nsfw at the end and let me just say that i haven't written any kind of porn in over a year so i'm rusty
> 
> also i couldn't find the name of armin's grandfather???? so i just called him adrian please just go with it
> 
> (you can follow me at erwinslevi.tumblr.com)

Armin wants to go back to sleep the moment he wakes up the next morning, the sun an unwelcome and obtrusive guest peeking out from the part in his curtains. When he closes his eyes against the light, Eren’s hurt face is projected on the backs of his lids, a horrific slideshow detailing everything Armin managed to fuck up last night.

He turns onto his side, dread curling in his abdomen. The digital clock on his desk reads 7:00, but he feels no desire to get up; he’d be content lying here for another week, rewriting yesterday in his head so that he can stop feeling so sick about it. He hates this part of himself – his traitorous consciousness, the expansive arena throughout which his faults echo, warped and discordant with what may or may not have actually happened.

Despite his wish for prolonged solitude, he knows that he’ll drive himself to the brink of a meltdown if he’s left alone with himself. His own company is his least favorite to keep, and he’s terrified of how everything inside of him seems to curdle whenever something like this happens, whenever it is made apparent that he is not, in fact, capable of functioning as a human being without making a mess of everything he touches.

With that thought, Armin sits up, bare feet settling against the carpet. One sleeve of his oversized t-shirt falls limply down his arm, and he hikes it back up as he stands to get dressed, schooling his expression into one of false calm. He can pretend to be fine. He’s had plenty of practice.

It’s as he’s pulling a t-shirt over his head that he remembers he’s still supposed to drive Eren to school. He makes a helpless, high-pitched noise and reaches up to tie his hair up into a messy bun.

“Fuck,” Armin hisses, stomping over to grab his messenger bag in a fit of childish petulance. He snatches his phone up and pockets it with a huff before heading out the door.

Eren is waiting for him in the driveway, leaning against the bumper of Armin’s car with all the carelessness of a James-Deanian antihero in his ridiculous, over-sized leather jacket and dark jeans. Armin has to take a quick breath when he sees him, his heart giving a great heave when he notices the caginess with which Eren regards him as he walks toward the car.

His first attempts to speak exit his mouth in a stumbling succession of half-uttered cracks, words caught in his throat. He thinks that maybe what happened last night may have been just as serious as he’s led himself to believe, but Eren interrupts the rapidly southward turn of his conjecturing with a tentative smile and a small wave.

“Hi,” Eren says, and that’s enough to set Armin’s nerves at some semblance of ease.

“Good morning,” he manages, and, in a moment of courage, goes so far as to cuff Eren’s shoulder. “Ready for the mile pre-test in gym?”

Any tangible tension that remained between them vanishes with Eren’s exaggerated expression of anguish. Armin laughs and heads around to the driver’s side, relief settling warmly in his chest. He feels a mild sense of irritation toward himself and his panic-prone imagination, as well, but he stifles it in favor of relishing the fact that everything is okay.

 _As okay as things can be when I’m still in love with him_ , he thinks, and oh. Shit.

* * *

 

The first two weeks of school pass as normally as Armin could hope for.

Phys ed is the bane of his existence and promises to remain as such for the rest of the semester. Even Eren’s presence does nothing to abate the burning in his legs once he reaches the halfway point of the mile they have to run every few days.

His fourth period English course is proving to be a challenge, as well; his teacher is absolutely unforgiving, it would seem, as he shuts Annie Leonhardt down in the middle of a discussion about _The Masque of the Red Death_ to tell her that her opinion on Poe’s symbolism is completely unsubstantiated and ignorant, even though Armin himself had been enraptured by her quiet observations. He comes to dread 1:30 more and more with each passing day, the mere thought of entering Mr. Jackson’s classroom sending his stomach into a series of discomfited acrobatics.

However, his other two classes are considerably easy, and he even finds himself looking forward to his geometry class.

And _that’s_ an absolute marvel, when Armin takes the time to consider it. Mr. Smith has begun solidifying his place as Armin’s favorite teacher within the first few days, and has somehow managed to make him enthusiastic about math. Armin is captivated by Smith’s hands moving rapid-fire over the whiteboard as he simultaneously lectures. Even despite his speed, the patience with which the teacher goes about handling students is something that Armin finds remarkable as Mr. Smith leans over his shoulder and changes a solid line in his drawing of a plane intersection to a dotted one. The man provides a sort of comfort even in his stoicism, and Armin is grateful for it.

* * *

 

Mikasa brings it up the Friday of the second week as she sits in his room. They’re waiting on Eren to use the bathroom before they leave for the movies, and she picks at his bedspread as she mentions it, going for casual but failing.

“You’ve been relaxed,” she says.

Armin doesn’t look up from where he’s browsing the internet on his phone. “Hmm?”

“You’ve been relaxed,” she repeats, and he glances up to see that she’s looking at him, her expression soft. “In class, I mean. Your hands don’t shake as much as they used to.”

The fact that she’s taken the time to notice such a thing touches him in an inexpressible way, warming him down to his toes. The cautious affection in Mikasa’s words has him walking over to the bed to drop down beside her. “You’re not in my fourth period,” he quips, huffing out a laugh and reaching up to run a hand through his hair.

A slight frown turns down the corners of her mouth at that. “What’s wrong with your fourth period?” she asks, and there’s a warning underneath the question, like she’s gearing up to fight whoever is responsible for Armin’s unease.

He waves a dismissive hand. “Mr. Jackson is a jerk. Don’t worry about it.”

Eren chooses that moment to emerge from the bathroom, brows furrowing when his eyes land on Mikasa’s hand where it rests on Armin’s knee. “Are we ready to go?” he asks.

“Yeah, just let me get my jacket,” says Armin as he hurriedly stands, pretending that he can’t feel Mikasa’s eyes on the back of his head. He crosses the room to grab his puffer coat from where it hangs on his closet door, ignoring the silent exchange that undoubtedly passes between Eren and Mikasa while he’s not looking. They worry about him too much, he knows, and he hates to think that they’ll devote any of Friend Date Night to doing just that.

“Alright,” Eren says when he turns around, and Armin can’t help but notice that he still looks slightly distracted. “Let’s go.”

The three of them hurry down the stairs and out the door, barely taking the time to say goodbye to Armin’s grandfather, who sits in the den watching television. Armin can feel the rush of a Friday night out hit him as soon as he’s jogging through the evening air toward his car with his best friends in tow, and he knows that he’ll be pulling his trashy pop cd from the depths of his divider before the night is over.

He and Eren drop into the car at the same time, and he checks to make sure Mikasa’s made it to the backseat before he starts the engine. He turns so that he’s facing the other two before asking, “So, what are we going to see?”

“The new Matt Damon movie is out,” Eren says with a shrug, attempting to come off as impartial.

Armin and Mikasa both know better, and Mikasa releases a resigned sigh. “Matt Damon it is.”

* * *

 

His phone’s clock reads well past twelve by the time Armin is tiptoeing through the front door later that night. He waves goodbye to Eren and Mikasa, grinning when Eren lifts his index and middle fingers in a peace sign, and closes the door behind him. He turns to begin his ascent up the stairs to his room, but is stopped in his tracks by his grandfather’s voice.

“You’re past curfew.”

Well _goddamn_.

A sheepish expression spreads over Armin’s face as he turns to see his grandfather leaning against the den doorway. He’s smiling, at least, which leads Armin to believe that he’s not actually in any trouble. “Sorry,” he says, twisting his hands in front of him. His grandfather makes him as nervous as any other adult. “The movie was really long. Great cinema does not obey conventional time restraints, you know.”

“Nice try,” Adrian says, squinting up at Armin through his glasses. “But no.”

“Fine. Mikasa wanted to get ice cream.”

“For two hours.”

Armin just winces.

Folding his arms over his chest, Adrian steps out from the shadows, a good-natured grin still twisting up one side of his mouth. “Relax, Armin. You don’t smell like alcohol or first-degree murder. You’re off the hook.” He pauses for a moment, deep in thought, and then speaks again. “So. Mikasa.”

“Mikasa,” Armin echoes, drawing out the name, confusion drawing his brows together.

“Are you,” his grandfather begins, and then cuts himself off before starting again. “Do you date her?”

Armin chokes, eyes widening in surprise at the question. “Oh, god, no,” he says, reaching up to put a hand on his chest. “Oh my god. No.”

Adrian throws his hands into the air in mock surrender. “I was just asking! You three have been friends for so long, and I just assumed.” He laughs to himself. “Your mother always said that the two of you would end up married.”

During the day, his grandfather would never have brought up his mother; his parents are not something that either of them likes to discuss, and the mention of his mom makes Armin feel slightly nauseous. He wonders idly if his grandfather is the one who has been drinking, and decides that he doesn’t want to know.

He swallows, palming the banister nervously and pretending to study the wood grain. “No. We’re just. We’re just friends.”

“Alright,” Adrian says, waving him off. “Go on to bed. I’ll see you in the morning. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” Armin says around the lump in his throat, and once again turns to head up the stairs to his room.

 _Your mother always said_ , echoes in his mind as he reaches the landing, and his hands clench by his sides. He doesn’t like to think about her or what she would say if she were here and knew that he wasn’t, in fact, leading the idealistic existence that she must have imagined for her son. He can’t help imagining the youthful face from the pictures on the living room mantel twisting in disgust after hearing that he can’t sit in class without trembling or beside his best friend without wanting to take his hand.

He wonders, idly, if it would get stuck in his throat like bugs on flypaper, if he would even be able to tell her about school or his friends or _Eren_ without the words being permeated by a deep and unutterable shame. Disappointing himself is a consistent and unforgiving part of his life; disappointing his mother is another thought entirely.

Armin shudders as he pushes his bedroom door open, shaking his head so as to clear it of thoughts of his parents, and closes it behind him. Letting his forehead fall against the wood, he takes a few deep breaths and counts as high as he can in Spanish— because he has a test Monday, and because his knees are quaking, and—

A small noise of confusion interrupts him somewhere around _veintidós_ , and he spins on his heels to see Eren sitting on his bed, regarding him with a frown and raised eyebrow.

Armin starts, dropping his bag to the floor in surprise. “Eren? What are you doing?”

Eren stands and shoves his hands into his back pockets the way he always does when he’s trying to come off as nonchalant. “I thought we could do a sleepover tonight,” he says, looking first at the floor and then at Armin, his eyes imploring. “It’s been a couple of weeks and I…I feel like something’s going on with you.”

“Oh,” Armin says, and his own attempt at insouciance is betrayed by a rise in the timbre of his voice.

Eren gives him a knowing look. “There it is.”

Biting his lip, Armin slides his jacket off of his shoulders, internally panicking at the prospect of Eren trying to delve too deeply into all of this. He crosses over to his stereo and plugs his phone into the audio jack without looking at the other boy, before turning it up enough so that the silence isn’t as deafening. He’d been under the impression that everything between them was back to normal, and now, as he uses Biffy Clyro to mask the quiet in the room, he realizes that he’s made a grave miscalculation.

“Armin,” Eren says behind him.

“Nothing is going on.” He can hear his heart beating in his ears. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” Eren accuses, and his hand comes to encircle Armin’s left bicep.

Armin finally turns to look at him, almost unable to bear the concern on his best friend’s features. It kills him to think that Eren is wasting time worrying about him, and he only feels more disgusted with himself when he realizes that part of him also _enjoys_ the thought. The notion that Eren cares about him that much—and it’s hardly a notion, at this point, when Eren his holding his arm and staring at him like that—is enough to have his pulse rabbiting against his ribcage with enough fervor to send it rocketing straight out of his chest. It would be almost too easy to interpret this in a romantic way; to turn the distressed set of Eren’s mouth into something it isn’t, to hold the other boy to the uncharacteristic gentleness in his gaze.

Doing so will only result in even more grief, but Armin allows himself to reach up and cover Eren’s hand with his own. “Really, Eren. Everything is good. I’m just as anxious as I always am.” He swallows and manages to choke out a self-deprecating laugh. “You know me. Always overthinking things that don’t matter.”

“If they’re making you feel bad, then those things _do_ matter,” Eren says, and there’s a ferociousness in it that takes Armin aback. “I know that I’m not the smartest guy in the world, but I can tell something is different. You’ve never been like this with me. Talk to me, _please_.”

Armin is often reminded of Eren Jaeger’s ceaseless passion, of his tendency to throw himself into everything he does, but he’s almost forgotten what it feels like to be on the receiving end. The intensity with which Eren delivers his words, chosen with more care than usual, is almost scary, causing Armin to internally recoil. He doesn’t like to be examined too closely by _anyone_ , and it feels like Eren could split him open with the heat in his gaze, like he could cut him in half and call for his demons to come crawling out of the yawning wound from where they’ve been festering for years. This part of them has always terrified Armin with its immensity. He’s never been able to articulate it in any sort of comprehensible way, and he comes no further along in doing so when Eren reaches up to push his hair out of his face.

“Please,” Eren begs, more quietly now, and Armin is so in love, he’s never felt so much for any one person in his _life_ ; he can’t even breathewith it. “Mikasa says you’re doing better, but it seems like you won’t even look at me, anymore.”

“You haven’t done anything.” Armin barely manages a whisper around the tightness in his throat.

The song changes. Fleet Foxes’ cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” begins to sound over the stereo.

“Is it about the other night?” Eren asks.

Avoiding the taller boy’s eyes, Armin shakes his head. “No,” he answers, but his voice wavers as he says it.

Eren’s hand falls from its place on his arm. He takes a deep breath, appearing to gather himself as he turns away from Armin for a moment. Reaching up to run a hand through his hair, he steps toward the bed before facing Armin again, a look of confusion and hurt apparent on his face. “Whatever I did,” he begins tremulously, “I didn’t mean to. I shouldn’t have asked you who you’ve been kissing. Fuck, I shouldn’t have come in without asking in the first place.”

“No, Eren, you know—you know you can come in any time, I was overreacting, it’s _fine_ —“

“Is that it, then?” Eren asks. “Did the kissing joke bother you?” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, seeming to be getting his thoughts in order. “Are you lonely, Armin?”

Armin bursts into a bout of humorless laughter at that, and immediately regrets it when he sees the look of surprise on Eren’s face. The bitterness rising in his throat makes him feel sick to his stomach. _I’m lonely when you’re not here_ , he wants to say, wants to _scream_ , wants to shout in Eren’s face as he grips the front of his shirt in his shaking hands. _Sometimes I’m lonely when you’re right next to me and I have to stop myself from touching you._

Instead, he blinks up at Eren through cloudy eyes and says, “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Without pause and without preamble, Eren pulls him into a fierce hug, arms winding themselves around Armin’s small frame with ease. Armin shudders in his grasp, pressing his face into Eren’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of drugstore cologne and Grisha’s cigars. He revels in the warmth between the two of them, letting Eren’s presence envelope him as they stand in the middle of his bedroom.

Eventually, Eren pulls away somewhat, just enough so that he can speak to Armin. “Do you want me to stay?”

“No,” is Armin’s immediate reply. When Eren begins to pull back a bit more, he adds, “But could you come over in the morning?”

Eren smiles softly and reaches up to ruffle Armin’s hair. “Yeah. I can do that.”

* * *

 

By the time Armin has showered and replayed the past half-hour in his head at least fifteen times, the clock on the wall reads 2:30. He sighs when he sees that, resigning himself to another sleepless night as he climbs onto his bed and turns to lie on his back.

Closing his eyes, he attempts to think of anything but Eren. This proves unsuccessful after only a few moments, his mind relating the minutest details of their earlier encounter with incredibly definition; he remembers the feeling of Eren’s hand clutching his bicep and the way Eren smelled when his strong arms were wrapped around Armin’s back.

“Goddamnit,” Armin huffs, and pushes his shorts down.

He’s already half-hard.  Normally, the shower is the only place he does this, but he’d been distracted at the time, and he’s almost annoyed with himself when he reaches down to wrap a dry hand around his length.

 _Eren’s arms around him. His face in Eren’s shoulder._ Thinking about what it’d be like to bite the skin there, he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock. A flush rises in his cheeks and spreads down to his chest, and he Armin makes a small noise in the back of his throat as he imagines Eren’s warm, tan skin under his teeth.

“Eren,” he mutters, his blush deepening as he bites his lip and begins to pull at his cock at a steady pace.

Again, his mind conjures the image of Eren’s deceptively strong arms, only now they’re propping him up above Armin as he settles in between the smaller boy’s thighs. Armin thinks he can almost feel it—what it would be like for Eren to brush against him, bare and desperate, holding back for Armin’s sake. He likes to imagine that he would hike his legs up around Eren’s waist, crossing his ankles at the bottom of the larger boy’s spine as he asked for more, as he begged for Eren to get on with it, and _oh_ —

“Shit.” He begins stripping his cock even faster, tipping his head back against the pillow and thrusting up into his hand.

 _Eren whimpering, frantically pumping his hips, biting his lip, mouthing at Armin’s jaw, pulling his hair._ The heat in Armin’s cheeks is joined by the heat gathering low in his abdomen, and he whines too loudly for this time of night. He can’t help it, though, any more than he can help the way his back arches and his toes curl as he nears the edge.

His breathing is coming in pants, now, and he just barely manages to moan Eren’s name once before the warmth in his stomach pops like a balloon, spreading throughout his entire lower half as he comes over his fist and the cotton of his sleep shorts.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Armin chokes, rubbing at the sensitive head of his cock, the muscles in his abdomen jumping as he does so. His chest heaves as he comes down from it, his vision graying at the edges, and he reminds himself that he needs to do this more often. He stretches languidly and sits up, spent cock resting limply against his leg, and thinks, _Imagine how that would feel if it were Eren’s hands doing it._

At that thought, his initial embarrassment returns, and Armin groans, putting his face in his hands. “I’m so screwed.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this is the longest chapter yet and just let me say that i couldn't breathe while writing the last thousand words. i wrote like 3k of this today alone, and so if there are mistakes it's because i've been going lightning speed.
> 
> please listen to "on my way" by the melodic as you read the last scene
> 
> major tw for anxiety in this chapter
> 
> dedicated, once again, to laura samwinchester, who i've been pestering all day about this fic
> 
> ((follow me at erwinslevi.tumblr.com))

He meets Eren for lunch the next day. To Armin’s surprise and Eren’s annoyance, Mikasa is hanging out with Jean and Marco, and so they make the trip to Applebee’s by themselves.

The silence between them in the car is one of understanding, the space filled by _Pure Heroine_ blasting over the stereo. Eren sings along under his breath and they both bob their heads in time with “400 Lux” as they speed down the highway. Armin spares a few glances over at his best friend, warmth rising in his cheeks every time Eren catches him looking.

Eren finally speaks once they’re sitting in the booth at the restaurant, turning to Armin the moment the waitress has taken their drink orders and disappeared into the kitchen. “Are you…feeling better, today?” he asks, biting his lower lip as if he can’t decide exactly how to phrase the question.

Armin knows how uncomfortable Eren is with discussing emotions in public, and so he pats Eren’s shoulder and says, “Yes, actually.” He doesn’t want to dwell on any part of last night, happy to have shed that heaviness over the course of a night’s sleep. A normal day with his best friend is what he needs, now, and he can’t help but release an internal sigh of relief when Eren nods, Armin’s reply seeming to have been sufficient enough for him.

With everything out in the open – rather, as out in the open as things can be, given Armin’s situation – they don’t have to make uncomfortable, evasive small talk as they eat. Eren immediately sets in on a mild tirade about Jean’s growing role in Mikasa’s life, voicing his suspicions as to whether or not they are dating. He gesticulates as he talks, hands emphatically twisting and chopping over his plate in a way that Armin finds endlessly endearing. It’s enough to just listen to Eren, to watch his eyes light up with irritated fervor, and Armin is content to sit back and interrupt only when it seems as if Eren is on the verge of a full-blown rant.

They have an unspoken agreement to not discuss school in any sort of depth, but Eren looks at him in the middle of speaking to ask, out of the blue, if he’s going to the first football game next Friday.

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, Armin takes a sip of his water. “When have we ever attended any sort of athletic school function?” he asks, recalling all the times when Eren turned up his nose at the suggestion that they might be interested in doing such a thing.

Eren shrugs, not looking at Armin. “It could be fun. Mikasa’s going.”

Ah. Armin has a good idea of Eren’s intentions. “So you want to spy on her and Jean?”

Regarding him with only a blank stare, Eren lets his fork fall to his plate. “Huh?”

“I didn’t,” Armin begins, feeling his face grow hot in the wake of his assumption. “You. I thought you meant to keep an eye on Mikasa.”

“Dude,” Eren says. “Jean’s playing _in the game_. It’s not like they’ll be making out under the bleachers.” He waves a hand, leaning forward to take a bite of his burger. Not bothering to swallow before speaking, he continues, “Besides, it’s not like Mikasa actually needs me to ‘keep an eye’ on her. I’m not worried about Kirschstein hurting her. She could fuck him up.” He wrinkles up his nose. “I just can’t stand him.”

Nodding, Armin mulls that over in his mind. “So why are we going, exactly?”

Another shrug. “It’s something to do. We don’t have to, if you don’t want.”

“No,” Armin says immediately, wanting to wipe the barely-masked despondence from Eren’s face. “I’ll go.”

With an easy grin, Eren sits back in his booth, popping a fry in his mouth. Armin rolls his eyes, shoves Eren’s shoulder, and then turns to his food, ignoring the way that Eren continues to smile at him long after the conversation is over.

* * *

 

The following week brings with it a sense of overwhelming stress, considering that Armin has three tests before it’s even half over.

He aces the Spanish exam that he takes on Monday, nearly jumping for joy when it is handed back with a large 100 written across the top in Ms. Zoe’s messy script. He hadn’t been as nervous for that particular assessment, as it was entirely made up of the simple vocabulary they’d learned in the preceding two weeks.

On the other hand, he’s shaking like a leaf when he sits down during second period on Tuesday to take his first geometry test. His previous sense of ease when working in Mr. Smith’s class has completely vanished in the face of an actual test, and even Mikasa’s soothing hand on his arm does nothing to quell the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“As this is an AP class, I do _not_ expect any cheating,” Smith says after he’s handed out the tests, giving the class a severe look. His expression softens after a moment, however, and he nods his head before telling them to begin.

Armin doesn’t even remember taking the test after he’s handed it over with trembling hands. His forehead feels clammy and he wants desperately to go into the bathroom to check his appearance, instead settling for wiping his face with his peach-colored cardigan and praying that he doesn’t look as much of a wreck as he feels.

Mr. Smith gives him an appraising look as he passes by his desk, but says nothing.

When the bell rings, Armin stands quickly, already shouldering his bag. He sends a nervous look toward Mr. Smith’s desk, where the teacher focuses intently on grading the tests that have already been turned in. He stares for another moment, feeling Mikasa touch his arm for a fleeting moment before she passes him entirely.

As finally he moves to leave, he is interrupted by Mr. Smith’s voice.

“Arlert. Can I see you for a moment?”

Swallowing, Armin turns toward the older man and nods, clutching his books to his chest, making himself as small as possible under the gaze of his teacher. “Yes,” he says, mind beginning to race with theories as to what Smith could want from him. He pulse nearly jumps into his throat when he sees the man rooting through the stack of graded tests before pulling one out.

“What do you have next period?” Smith asks, still looking at the test in his hands.

“Spanish,” Armin manages, throat tight. “With Zoe.”

Smith nods. “Good. Hanji won’t mind, then, if you stay for a bit.”

“Mr. Smith?” Armin ventures, brows furrowing in worry as he approaches his desk. “Is something wrong?”

Reaching up to pinch his lower lip between his thumb and index finger, Mr. Smith shakes his head. “Not…exactly. Come have a seat, Armin.”

At the use of his first name, Armin starts and goes to sit down at the table closest to Smith’s desk. Mr. Smith stands and walks over to him, still clutching that stapled set of papers, before taking the seat right beside of him and facing Armin fully.

“This,” Smith begins, indicating the test in his hands, “is incredibly disconcerting.”

“Mr. Smith, I don’t –“ Armin says, but is interrupted by the other man handing the paper to him.

 _64\. 64. 64._ Armin’s heart drops to his feet. _64_. His eyes begin to water before he can help it, blurring the image of multiple red slash marks littering the paper. He clenches his hands, letting out a sharp breath. _Good fucking job, Arlert_ , he thinks at himself, chest heaving as his breathing becomes more and more ragged, and this is _humiliating_ , having a teacher witness what is about to be a massive panic attack in the middle of the classroom.

“Armin,” Mr. Smith says quietly, reaching out to rest a large hand on his shoulder. “Armin.”

“I’m sorry,” Armin says, and his voice is warped by the tears that he’s trying to hold back. “I’m sorry, I’ll do so much better next time, I’ll do whatever I have to.” Blinking rapidly, he shakes his head and watches as a traitorous drop of water falls to the paper in his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

Mr. Smith gently pries the test from his rigid fingers. “Armin, look at me,” he commands softly, and Armin has never been more embarrassed in his life, he thinks. “Armin.”

Armin finally looks up, _I failed, I failed, I failed_ , repeating itself in his head like an incessant mantra. He tries to force the moisture in his eyes to subside, with mixed results. Shame burning high on his cheeks, he locks eyes with his teacher.

“You’re an exceptional student,” Mr. Smith starts. “Throughout the last two weeks, I’ve found myself impressed with your abilities on multiple occasions. You are very adept at grasping difficult concepts. Perhaps the most adept student I’ve had in years, even though it’s very early in the semester.”

 _Obviously not_ , Armin thinks bitterly, but stays silent.

“Which makes this test an enigma in and of itself,” he continues, his eyebrows coming together. “I couldn’t help but notice how uneasy you seemed from the moment you came into class.”

“Today was a test day,” Armin manages around the lump in his throat. “That’s just a part of it.”

Shaking his head, Smith scoots closer, trying to catch Armin’s gaze. “Are you okay, Armin? Do you need a drink of water?” he asks, and continues when Armin doesn’t answer, “Test anxiety is something that I see every day at this school. Test anxiety is normal.” He pauses. “But you looked physically ill.”

Armin nods, feeling the weight of this failure settle in his chest with all of the others. _I can’t even pass a geometry test_ , his mind whispers, and from the same part of his brain come murmurs of, _Eren doesn’t feel the same about you. Your parents would be so disappointed._

“I need you to understand that this test does not, in any way, affect the opinion I’ve formed regarding you and your academic skill. I have heard only positive things from multiple teachers, including Ms. Zoe. I know that I can’t just ask you to relax or not worry. But I would like for you to give yourself a little more credit.” Leaning forward suddenly, Mr. Smith holds the test up so that Armin can clearly see it, and Armin has to resist the urge to look away in disgust. “And please know that this is not the most important thing that has ever or will ever happen to you.”

Taking a deep, shaky breath, Armin looks at Mr. Smith with an expression of mild confusion, to which the older man only smiles genially.

“You should stop by the nurse,” Smith says, standing. “Maybe take the rest of the day off.”

“I can’t,” Armin says, and gets up, pulling his bag back over his head. “I have an English test.”

“I see,” the teacher replies. He appears to think for a moment, before leaning over to snatch a notepad from his desk and begin scribbling on it with the pen in his breast pocket. “I’m going to excuse you from third period. Give this to Ms. Zoe and then go to the nurse. Have some lunch. Don’t think about your English test.” He glances up after a moment, tearing off the note and giving it to Armin. He chuckles when he notices the skeptical look on Armin’s face. “Don’t worry. Ms. Zoe and I have known each other for a very long time. She won’t have a problem with it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith.” Armin takes the note without looking at the taller man, wanting to cry all over again because of the unbelievable kindness being extended to him. He isn’t used to adults treating him with this much understanding.

“You’re very welcome,” Smith says. “And when we speak in private, I would prefer that you call me by ‘Erwin’, if that doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

It doesn’t, strangely enough, and Armin is floored by the thought of being on a first-name basis with a teacher. “Okay,” he replies, taking his books into his arms. “Okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Armin,” Erwin says, reassuming his more professional demeanor as he walks around his desk and begins to shuffle a few papers.

Armin smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sir.”

* * *

 

“I have it on good authority that you’re skipping third right now,” Eren says when they sit down to lunch, and Armin doesn’t have time to reply before he asks, “What happened?”

Closing his eyes, Armin rests his elbow on the table and pinches the bridge of his nose. He should have known that someone would notice him give the excuse note to Ms. Zoe before leaving, and he _definitely_ should have known that Eren would have found out about it by now.

“Well?” Eren urges.

Armin sighs. “I failed my geometry test,” he admits, feeling that same sickening swoop low in his stomach as he says it.

Eyes widening in shock, Eren pulls back a bit from where he’s been half-way sharing a seat with Armin. “What?”

“I failed, and Er – Mr. Smith wanted to talk to me about it,” Armin elaborates, not meeting Eren’s surprised gaze.

“For a whole period?”

Internally cringing, Armin finally brings himself to look at Eren. “I kind of,” he begins, and then stops, choosing his words more carefully now. “I almost had a little bit of a panic attack after he told me.” Armin flushes after the words are out, and he takes a bite of his turkey sandwich to avoid expounding further when Eren’s expression grows even more astonished.

“Are you okay?” Eren asks quietly, leaning in so that no one around them has a chance of hearing. “Do you need to go home? I can drive if you don’t feel like you can, I’ll –“

“Eren,” Armin cuts him off. “I’m fine. I just needed a breather before English. Smith wrote a note for me.”

Some of the worry slips off of Eren’s face, replaced by obvious relief. “You’re sure?” he asks anyway, dropping his head so that he’s looking Armin in the eyes.

Slightly flustered, Armin nods. “Yes.” Eren’s hand is hot on his forearm. “I’ll be okay.”

Eren looks like he doesn’t believe him.

* * *

 

Armin’s preparation for Friday night consists of staring at himself in the mirror for half an hour, trying his hair in different styles and then huffing when he still isn’t satisfied. He changes outfits three times before finally deciding on a mustard-yellow v-neck sweater and skinny blue jeans. It’s only after a moment’s debate that he ties his hair up into a bun and adds a grey beanie.

It feels, in all honestly, as if he were gearing up for a date. _Which this_ isn’t, he reminds himself as he picks up his phone to text Eren. He receives a reply almost immediately, and something tugs at his stomach when he reads the words, _get your cute ass down here, armin arlert_.

He knows that Eren doesn’t mean anything by it, and he releases a sigh as he flicks the bathroom light off and grabs his bag.

* * *

 

“Holy shit,” Eren says as Marco Bodt takes a hit at the five-yard line that sends him sprawling out of bounds, the football flying from his grasp and into a gaggle of cheerleaders at the sideline.

Armin winces, looking on as Coach Zacharias hurries over to assess the damage to his prized running back. “Why do people play this sport?” Armin asks as the buzzer signaling halftime goes off. He watches as Jean helps Marco off of the ground, the taller boy cradling Marco’s elbows in his hands as he appears to ask if he’s alright.

“I don’t know,” Eren replies, and Armin looks over to see him grinning. “It’s exciting, at least.”

“Don’t even think about it, Eren Jaeger,” Armin warns, knowing exactly what is crossing the other boy’s mind. “I’m not going to spend every Friday night watching you eat AstroTurf.”

Visibly deflating, Eren stands and indicates the concession stand by tipping his head in its general direction. “C’mon, let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”

They walk to the concessions in amiable silence, hands shoved in their pockets as they knock their shoulders together and try to get in step with one another. The cool September air feels good against Armin’s face, and he closes his eyes and breathes in, reflecting for a moment on how much he loves Friday evenings, how much he treasures the feeling of having the whole weekend before him; no tests, no homework, no jerk English teachers. Friday night makes it easy to shed his terrible, stressful week like a second skin.

“Armin! Eren!” Mikasa’s voice sounds over his thoughts, and he opens his eyes to see her waving from where she stands with Sasha Braus by the concessions.

“Great! You’re in line!” Eren fist pumps, jogging over to Mikasa. “Get some nachos for us.”

Armin shakes his head and follows the other boy, unable to hide his grin. He digs in his bag for a few dollars as he comes upon them, finally clutching a wad of bills in the very bottom. “Get nachos for him. I just want a Coke, please,” he tells Mikasa, handing over the money as Eren claps him on the back.

“That’s my best friend,” Eren says with mock pride, puffing out his chest. “Always looking out for me.”

Snorting, Mikasa crosses her arms. “More like, ‘that’s my sister, always looking out for my best friend and me.’”

Waving a hand, Eren rocks on his heels and looks around them distractedly. Armin and Mikasa exchange a look – it’s not like Eren to leave small talk up to others. However, Armin has been noting Eren’s odd behavior throughout the night; he’d seemed preoccupied from the moment Armin met him in the Arlert driveway, subdued but buzzing with a sort of static energy. Armin hadn’t said anything, chalked it up to Friday night excitement, but now he finds himself wondering if there might actually be something troubling Eren.

* * *

 

When the game ends, even Armin is inclined to stand and cheer wildly for their team, the giant _72-54_ on the scoreboard instilling within him an inexplicable and momentary sense of pride. He sees Connie Springer tackle Jean Kirschstein from behind, wrapping his legs around the other boy’s waist as he swings his helmet above his head and screeches, ignoring Jean’s shouted protests. Mikasa enters Armin’s line of sight as he looks on, and he can’t help but grin when he sees her intercept a laughing Marco in a hug.

“So is she dating Marco, then?” Sasha asks from behind them, just as Jean throws Connie off and goes to join Mikasa and Marco.

Eren tenses beside of Armin. “No,” he says, and Armin can’t help but laugh at the irritation in his voice.

“Come on,” Armin says, tugging at Eren’s arm. Eren finally budges, following him as he sets off down the bleachers. “Let’s get out of here.”

Armin is parked relatively close to the field. He’s grateful for that as he folds his hands under his armpits and shivers against the breeze -- it’s unseasonably cold for September. He looks forward to climbing into his warm bed, wondering idly if Eren will stay the night. The thought of sharing a bed with Eren for the first time since their talk sets his pulse racing low in his throat, and he finds himself walking a little more quickly, leaving Eren a few paces behind.

He reaches the car first, pulling at the driver’s side door the moment he gets there. It takes a moment for Armin to realize that it’s locked, and he curses under his breath, going for his bag –

“Oh, shit,” he says.

The sound of Eren’s jogging footsteps grows louder. “What is it?”

“I – damn it, I left my bag in the stands,” Armin huffs, leaning back on the car. He shakes his head and then knocks it against the door, shoving his hands into his pockets for a brief moment before sighing resignedly and kicking off of the car.

Eren stops him before he can get more than a few steps. “I’ll get it,” he tells Armin, holding his arm across the shorter boy’s chest. When Armin responds with a look of confusion, Eren shrugs. “I forgot to say goodbye to Mikasa.”

“Okay.” Armin still eyes him skeptically, but lets him go nonetheless, watching as Eren begins to speed walk back to the stadium. He can’t help but be more than a little exasperated by Eren’s strange behavior.

 _Although_ , he muses as he takes a seat on the hood of the car, _you aren’t really one to talk about strange behavior_.

“Whatever,” Armin breathes, blowing some stray hair out of his face. Now is not the time to start psychoanalyzing himself, not the time to be thinking about anything other than how happy he is to be spending time with his best friend.

 _Your best friend who is acting like someone else entirely_ , he reminds himself. It’s almost imperceptible, and most definitely nothing to worry about, but the fact that Mikasa also noticed Eren’s restlessness – much more pronounced than usual – has Armin dwelling on what could possibly be weighing that heavily on Eren’s mind. Eren keeps up a veneer of easiness in the face of almost any personal trial, even if he has always been hotheaded when it comes to his friends, and Armin feels more than a little disquieted to think that Eren could be dealing with something major enough that he hasn’t confided in either Armin or Mikasa.

Again, he has to acknowledge his own hypocrisy, reminding himself that he hasn’t told Eren very much at all regarding his own inner turmoil. However, he justifies that on the grounds that his problems could potentially end the greatest friendship he’s ever known. Keeping his feelings for Eren to himself is necessary to the preservation of both of their well-beings.

Armin can’t imagine that any of Eren’s difficulties could have such an outcome, can’t imagine that Eren could ever say anything to make Armin stop being his friend. Short of murder (and even then, it would depend), Armin is not sure that there is any case where he wouldn’t defend Eren’s motivations, where he wouldn’t fight tooth-and-nail to upend the notion that Eren could be anything less than the kindest, most heartfelt individual to ever walk this earth.

Running steps interrupt the train of Armin’s thought, and he looks up to see a wide-eyed Eren clutching his bag and leaning over, hands on his knees as he heaves great, gasping breaths.

“Eren?” he asks, vaulting off of the car and rushing to his best friend’s side. Eyes wide with alarm, he puts a hand on Eren’s shoulder and inspects him for any harm, concluding after only a few moments that the other boy is not suffering from any physical trauma. “Eren, what’s wrong?”

With a bewildered expression, Eren finally looks up at him. “I – Jean and – Jean and Marco –“

“What about them?” Armin asks when Eren pauses, seeming to collect his thoughts.

That prompts Eren to respond, still breathless, his eyebrows high on his forehead. “They – they were the last ones there and they were standing outside the field house –“

“And?”

“They were making out,” Eren finishes. He blinks a few times at Armin, drawing his lower lip into his mouth and then releasing it with a pop. “Yeah. They were just – just going at it against the side of the field house.”

Armin takes a step backward in surprise, attempting to process what Eren has just said. “What –?”

“I don’t know,” Eren says, standing upright. He rubs the back of his neck, looking at the ground in apparent thought.

Armin stares at him as he does so, the image of Jean and Marco kissing lingering in the forefront of his consciousness. It causes something in his chest to seize up, though he can’t say why. It occurs to him that, if what Eren saw wasn’t just a trick of the light, this is actually a sad situation: two football players secretly dating in a school that doesn’t have a good reputation for being very progressive. He winces and brings both arms up to hug his torso.

“I mean,” Eren begins after a moment, “at least this means Mikasa isn’t dating either of them.”

Unable to stop the burst of laughter that erupts from him, Armin spins all the way around and reaches up to cover his mouth with one hand. Eren grins at him, walking over and handing his bag to Armin. Accepting it with a nod, Armin has to stifle another snicker. He cuffs Eren lightly on the shoulder, delighting in the laugh that it elicits from the taller boy.

“Let’s go back to your house,” Eren suggests, putting his hand on the small of Armin’s back.

Armin shivers when his hand grazes a strip of exposed skin where his sweater has ridden up. “Yeah,” he manages, his smile faltering.

“Are you good?” Eren asks, apparently having noticed his sudden change of expression.

Armin means to reply with a simple _yes_ , but he isn’t able to help himself when he asks, “What’s wrong with you?”

“What?” Eren asks, and it’s infuriating, this little dance that they keep doing, asking and avoiding one another’s questions.  His hand slips from its place on Armin’s back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Eren.” There’s caution present in Armin’s tone, but also a slight tremor. He thought he’d used up all his courage during their talk the other night. “You’ve been acting strangely since this afternoon.” He takes a deep breath. “Please don’t lie to me.”

Looking up at the sky, Eren puts his hands on his hips and takes a few steps backward. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip and huffs out a humorless laugh, and Armin feels his stomach clench at his best friend’s evasiveness. “Nothing is wrong.”

“Bullshit, Eren.” Armin moves closer to the other boy, half-heartedly point at his chest. “You don’t act like this. You’re being shifty and elusive and I don’t like it.”

“Armin –“

“I opened up to you the other night,” Armin interrupts him. He swallows and tries to subdue agitated thump of his heart in his chest, sure that it’s audible in the stillness that follows his words. “Now you need to do the same for me.”

Eren looks at him. “I don’t want to talk about this in a school parking lot.”

“Well, we’re sure as hell going to!” Armin flushes with anger, squashing the impulse to stomp his foot. “You’re always doing things for me, and I _never_ get to do this for you, so _talk to me_.”

“Goddamnit,” Eren hisses, and threads his fingers into his hair. “I can’t stop thinking about what you told me the other night!”

Taken aback, Armin freezes, gawking at Eren. The implications behind Eren’s exclamation don’t immediately occur to him, but when they do, he very seriously considers getting into his car and leaving Eren to stand alone in the school parking lot. It’s too much to comprehend at once, and he wants to be alone to dissect the anguish on his face and the way that Eren fists at his hair. He wants to be alone so that he doesn’t have to hear it when it turns out that Eren isn’t, in fact, insinuating anything.

“What do you mean?” he asks instead.

Eren sighs and goes to sit on the hood of the car, hair tousled from where he’s been pulling at it. He locks his hands behind his head and rests his elbows on his knees, closing his eyes. “I don’t,” he begins, and then cuts himself off to start again. “I can’t stand it.”

Armin takes a step closer, almost as if in a trance, as Eren continues.

“You’re lonely and I can’t do anything about it. I can’t _help_ you,” Eren says, and he sounds so frustrated that Armin wants to cry, wants to grab him by the face and tell him that he’s wrong, that he’s the only reason Armin isn’t truly alone. “It’s been bothering me all week, but especially tonight, because I realized that you should be out on a date. You should have someone. I don’t know if you’re straight – “ Armin sucks in a breath “ – or gay or bi. I don’t care. You’re the most incredible person I know and you deserve to have someone to kiss and fuck and hold hands with. And I can’t stand the thought that you don’t feel like you _do_ deserve any of that, or that you’re afraid to look for it because of this ass-backwards shitstain of a town.”

A pregnant pause is left in the wake of Eren’s spiel, a silence that can’t possibly be filled by anything Armin could say. He stares at Eren, feeling an immense pressure building up behind his eyes, and wonders how he managed to find someone so passionate and caring and _volatile_ , a ticking time bomb in the middle of the stillest night, the only person who could make Armin feel this much in the dullest parts of him.

When Eren finally looks up at him, his eyes are red-rimmed. “I want you to be okay.”

Armin can’t make his mouth work for a few moments. The sentiment behind Eren’s words isn’t fresh -- it's covered in earth and ash, dredged up after the years spanning their entire friendship. This is deeper than Armin’s loneliness, or his anxiety, or his sadness – this directly targets the core of him, the empty middle of his being, where a weaker version of himself begs for something to hold onto. The words make a fruitless attempt at laying the groundwork for a graveyard in which to bury his insecurities, but Armin is afraid to take them too seriously. He’s absolutely fucking _terrified_ , he realizes as he stands across from Eren, and he doesn’t know if he’s ready to think about everything Eren could mean by those six simple words.

“You don’t have someone like that, either,” he says, and it’s just barely above a whisper.

A determined glint in his eyes, Eren offers up the smallest of shrugs. “I’m not lonely.”

Before he knows what he’s doing, Armin is stepping into the space between Eren’s knees, resting his hands on the larger boy’s waist. His mind screams at him for a brief second, the rapidity of the next few moments barely allowing for it, and then Armin is kissing him, pressing as closely to Eren as he can manage with two sweaters between them.

Eren immediately reaches up to cup Armin’s face, and Armin feels tears that don’t belong to him grazing his cheeks. Eren accepts the kiss readily, one hand fisting itself in Armin’s sweater, pulling him closer. Every place where they come into contact burns, the ferocity in each touch sending Armin’s head spinning.

It almost hurts. Their teeth keep knocking together and Armin has to gasp against Eren’s mouth every few seconds, body wracked with almost-sobs. He’s kissing the boy he loves, and he can’t help the tears that form as he sucks Eren’s lower lip into his mouth and works his hands up under Eren’s shirt, relishing the unbelievable heat he finds there. This is _everything_ ; this is every A he’s ever gotten, this is his mother’s voice, this is the ocean lapping at his toes. The entire world rests in this one moment, pushing Eren back against the hood of his car and letting his body say what his mouth never could.

Eren pulls back just as that thought occurs to Armin, his breathing so rapid that it’s almost alarming. His eyes search Armin’s face in the dimness, illuminated by the orange glow of the streetlights that line the lot. “ _God_ ,” he nearly chokes, visibly struggling for words. “I don’t know what this is.”

“Neither do I,” Armin says quietly. He disentangles himself from Eren’s grasp but pulls himself up onto the car to sit beside of him, pressing as close to his side as possible.

They both stare forward, Eren with his hands clasped between his spread knees. The quiet between them is not uncomfortable at all, exists rather so that neither of them have to compete to say everything they need to.  Armin lets his held fall against Eren’s shoulder like it has so many times, at lunch or in the car or while watching a movie in Armin’s room. The gesture is one of familiarity, and Eren welcomes it by putting his arm around the smaller boy’s shoulders.

They don’t speak for a very, very long time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the longest chapter yet i just banged out 4K of this in one sitting so please tell me if there are any mistakes
> 
> thanks 2 laura samwinchester for bein the best about this fic and letting me talk to her about it when i'm having troubles
> 
> listen to "the woods" by sea of bees while you read the last part please
> 
> also, warning for mentions of homophobia in this chapter
> 
> ((follow me at erwinslevi.tumblr.com))

When they stumble into Armin’s room an hour later, Eren has latched onto the smaller boy, his mouth trailing hot kisses up the line of his jaw. It takes Armin several tries to get the door shut behind them, the action proving extremely difficult when Eren nips lightly at the space under his ear. Armin emits a choked noise and knots his hands in the back of Eren’s shirt as he finally hears the lock click.

Eren pushes him against the door, hands moving to Armin’s waist, mouthing his way from Armin’s neck back to his lips. Armin whines and pulls back the corners of his mouth so that he can suck in a deep breath, raking his nails down Eren’s back as the other boy squeezes his hips and presses even more closely.

The fact that this is even happening has Armin’s head spinning, and Eren’s tongue in his mouth does nothing to remedy his disoriented state. He’s thought of this more times than he’d like to admit, fantasized about Eren pushing him against every flat surface in his room, and he can’t help the small moan that escapes him when he feels Eren grind his hips into Armin’s.

Breaking away, Eren pants, “Is that – is that okay?” His pupils are blown wide, emphasized by the thin ring of bright green circling them. It takes Armin a moment to gather his words.

“Yeah,” Armin finally breathes, shaking his head as if clearing his thoughts. “Yeah, not any further yet, but that’s. Keeping doing that.”

Eren’s face splits in a grin that makes Armin’s heart ache, and he slots their hips together once more, that reckless smile remaining even as he leans forward to capture Armin in another kiss.

Taking some initiative, Armin begins to walk them toward the bed. The backs of Eren’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and they topple onto it, their teeth clacking painfully. Armin throws his head back and laughs even so, delighting in the way that Eren’s nose scrunches up in discomfort.

“Shit,” Eren says, reaching up to pull at one of his front teeth. “Thanks for that.”

Armin snorts. “Did the baby get hurt?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Did you want me to kiss it better?” Armin asks, only realizing how embarrassing it sounds after the words have already left him.

“Oh my god,” Eren says, and his laugh jostles the both of them. “You’re a fucking nerd.”

Armin lets his head fall so that his face is buried in other boy’s neck. He presses a few small kisses there, flushing when he notices the way it sounds in the stillness of the room. “Am I?” he asks, and, in a moment of daring, swipes his tongue over Eren’s skin.

“Uh,” Eren says, and his hips try to rise off of the bed. “Um, fuck –“

A knock interrupts whatever thoughtless stream of monosyllabic swears was about to escape Eren, and Armin sits straight up, still straddling Eren as he turns to face the closed bedroom door. He stares and listens as a few more _thunks_ disturb the silence.

“Armin?” his grandfather’s voice sounds from the hallway. “Could you boys keep it down?”

Attempting to steady his breathing, Armin closes his eyes. “Yeah, sorry!” he manages, panic still surging through his chest. He silently prays that that will be enough to send his grandfather away.

His prayers are answered when he hears the sound of Adrian’s footsteps retreating down the hall. Armin heaves a sigh of relief and turns around to look at Eren. “Jesus christ,” is all he says, and cocks his head when he notices that the blood has drained from Eren’s face, his skin taking on a greenish pallor that has Armin furrowing his brows in concern. He feels a distant sense of dread, something picking at the edges of his consciousness, but he mentally bats it away. “Are you alright?”

Eren nods somewhat distractedly, blinking as few times as if coming back to himself. “Yeah,” he replies. He reaches up to put a hand on his forehead, placing the other on Armin’s hip. “That was a close one.”

Nodding, Armin begins to climb off of Eren. He swings his leg over until he’s lying on his back beside of the other boy, twining his fingers over his stomach as he stares up at the ceiling. “So, are you going to stay? The night, I mean?” he asks, trying not to look at Eren as he waits for an answer.

Eren turns onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. Armin sees him smiling out of the corner of his eye.

* * *

 

Armin walks into his first period on Monday with a grin on his face, his chest feeling lighter than it has in weeks.

They haven’t spoken since they bid their goodbyes in the Arlert driveway on Saturday morning, aside from a text he received from Eren later that day that said, _visiting relatives, see you monday_. He doesn’t really mind; in fact, he likes that he had a whole weekend replay Friday night in his head while listening to Taylor Swift and absolutely flipping his shit. His grandfather had grown concerned when Armin began blasting _Fearless_ at four in the morning on Sunday, but even his reprimands did nothing to put a dampener on Armin’s good mood.

Quite sure that almost nothing could succeed in doing so, Armin strides into the gym with a little bit of a spring in his step. He’s wearing his favorite sweater – a pale red one that hangs almost entirely off of one shoulder – and a pair of shorts that are sure to get him in trouble, should any of the stricter members of the faculty catch him walking through the halls.

As it is, Coach Zacharias does nothing but nod at him as he heads into the locker room. Stomach flipping with anticipation, he pushes the door open, bracing himself for what it will feel like to see Eren for the first time since they kissed.

He doesn’t immediately catch sight of Eren; the locker room is bustling, full of loud teenage boys in various states of undress who are hitting and throwing things at one another. Armin scoots along the wall toward his locker, narrowly dodging a can of spray-on deodorant that comes whizzing by his head.

Eren is standing at his own locker, located right beside of Armin’s. He’s hastily pulling a shirt over his head, facing away from everyone else in the room so that Armin can’t get a clear look at his face. Armin takes a deep breath and approaches, clutching at the strap of his bag so tightly that he thinks his knuckles might burst through the backs of his hands.

“Hi,” he says shyly, and _god_ , he hates how nervous he sounds. “You didn’t answer my text about a ride this morning, so I guess you got to school okay?”

Still not looking at Armin, Eren nods. “Yeah. Hitched a ride with Connie.”

The reservation in Eren’s tone has dread blooming low in Armin’s stomach, unease settling over him like a fog. “Oh,” he says, and reaches up to touch Eren’s shoulder, his chest tightening when Eren flinches slightly. “I see.”

Those two words are given incredible weight, and Eren finally turns to look at him, his eyes shifting from Armin to the rest of the boys in the room. The expression on his face is more withdrawn than Armin has ever seen, mouth pressed into a thin line, his vibrant green irises dulled by the lack of sleep that the bags under his eyes indicate. The contrast between this Eren and the one who told him _I want you to be okay_ as they stood in the middle of the school parking lot is stark – so stark that it makes Armin feel almost nauseous, his imagination going into overdrive as he thinks about everything that that could mean.

Armin takes a moment to grieve the mental images he’d conjured when thinking about this moment: Eren whispering a soft hello into his ear, Eren timidly taking his hand, Eren kissing his cheek and smiling against his skin. He spent the whole weekend imagining how bright Eren’s grin would be, and now the other boy won’t even meet his gaze.

“Eren,” Armin begins, barely audible, but Eren slams his locker door shut and turns to face him fully.

“Don’t,” Eren says beseechingly, one hand coming up to tug at the sleeve of Armin’s sweater. “I can’t do this right now, Armin.” He steps a little closer, lowering his voice so that there’s no chance of anyone else hearing. “It was just a kiss.”

And _that_ feels like a punch to the gut. The words are painfully predictable, something Armin should have seen coming the moment he decided to kiss his best friend. He feels an immense pressure build behind his eyes, and he takes a step back from Eren, blinking rapidly so as to stave off the tears that want to fall. In that moment, he hates himself for being naïve enough to think that this could work, that Eren could possibly want him in this way.

His voice is tremulous when he finally speaks, warped with the effort not to cry. “Yeah,” Armin says, looking down at his slip-ons and forcing a small huff of a laugh. “Yeah, it was just a kiss. A kiss in the parking lot. And in the driveway.” He swallows. “And in my bed.”

“Armin…”

Unable to stomach the pitying look on Eren’s face, Armin takes another step backward. “No.” He realizes that a few of the boys who are still left in the room are staring, and he feels his face burn with a mixture of embarrassment and shame. “You’re right. It was just – yeah. I’m gonna –“ he pauses, biting his lip and looking away as he feels his composure dissolving. When he speaks again, his voice is unnaturally high from having to be forced out of his constricted throat. “Tell Coach Zacharias that I’m taking my free day today, okay?”

He doesn’t give Eren time to reply; he spins on his heels and runs out of the locker room, ignoring the unwanted attention that the action garners. He races past all of the boys who are gathered at the gym doors, past Coach Zacharias, past all of the inquisitive looks that he meets as he sprints down the hallway toward nothing in particular. Tears begin to fall freely as he does so, the words _it was just a kiss_ blinking in the forefront of his consciousness, seared into his brain like a cattle brand.

His pace slackens as he rounds the corner leading to the main office, the slap of his shoes loud in the empty hallway. Messenger bag weighing heavily on his shoulders, Armin lets his back fall against the wall, the brick cold against the exposed skin at the nape of his neck. He slides down until he’s in a crouched position on the floor, drawing his knees up until he’s made himself as small as possible.

“Oh my _god_ ,” he chokes, and buries his face in his folded arms, allowing himself to succumb to the sobs trying to escape him. At the moment, he doesn’t care that he’s sitting the middle of the hall, paying no mind to anything but the memory of Eren’s face – so reticent, so tense, a face that Armin’s never had to look at before. Eren has always shut people out when they get too close, but Armin has always been the one person (with the exception of Mikasa) that he has been able confide in. Armin can hardly stand the thought that that trust could be broken, that he could be just like everyone else in Eren’s eyes.

 _I’m so fucking stupid_ , he thinks. As many times as he’s told himself that throughout the years, the words have never resonated on such a profound level, and he curls in on himself even more so. A quick procession of images flash behind his closed eyelids; a giant, red _64_ , scribbled at the top of a test; Eren’s hands working themselves up under his shirt, warm against his skin; his mother, her face bright with laughter, playfully saying, “They’re going to end up married one day,” as she watches her gay son play with the neighbor girl.

He wants to throw up, dizziness scattering his thoughts until they become a series of disjointed phrases and half-conjured pictures. Leaning over his knees until they press sharply into his ribs, he wraps his arms around his legs and begins to mentally recite equations, words, lines from poems, anything that will make him feel like he has a hold on himself, like he’s not falling to pieces on the floor of a school hallway.

The sound of approaching steps catches Armin’s attention, and he tenses from his place on the floor, ill-equipped to deal with any sort of interaction with other people at the moment. His entire body quivers, wracked with silent cries that don’t quite make it out of his mouth. He prays that it’s just a random student, that whoever it is will leave him be for the moment.

The footfalls stop right in front of him, and a pair of heeled men’s boots enter Armin’s field of vision. He slowly looks upward, gaze trailing up the petite frame of whoever it is before his eyes stop on the face of Vice Principal Levi.

“What class are you supposed to be in?”

Armin is struck by just how intimidating the vice principal is when he finds himself on the receiving end of his severe gaze. He hasn’t had any run-ins with Levi in all of his years at Rose, and the fact that this should be happening now, when everything else has fallen to shit, seems to be the result of some cosmic attempt to destroy the scant remnants of his sanity.

“Gym,” he answers, reaching up to wipe at his eyes, hoping that the man standing above him will have some mercy and allow him to return to class without being berated too harshly. He’s heard stories about Connie’s many encounters with Levi, and, while he questions the credibility of most of what Connie says, he’s inclined to believe them when he observes the stern set of the older man’s jaw.

Levi stares at him for a long moment, expression completely indecipherable. He tilts his chin upward in a quiet sort of rumination. “Name,” he says eventually.

Armin isn’t so dense that he can’t pick up on the command in his voice. “Armin Arlert, sir,” he says, and begins to get off of the floor, using the wall for support as he gathers his messenger bag into his arms.

A flash of recognition flares in Levi’s eyes. “Arlert. You’re in Smith’s second period geometry.”

Taken aback, Armin straightens himself so that he’s standing at full height. To his surprise, he has a half-inch or so on the older man, though it makes him no more approachable than before. He shifts uncomfortably, hiking the strap of his bag onto his shoulder. For a moment, he debates as to whether or not he should ask if he’s in trouble.

He dismisses the thought when Levi nods and gestures to his left. “I’ll take you to him,” the shorter man says, before turning to begin walking down the hall toward Mr. Smith’s classroom.

Armin blinks at the vice principal’s retreating form for a moment before following him.

Levi is silent as they walk toward the geometry classroom, the only sound in the hallway being the echo of his boot heels against the tile. Armin trails behind him by a few feet, clutching the strap of his bag to his chest. He wonders about the motivations behind the vice principal’s actions, so conditioned by stories of his unforgiving nature that Armin has built him up in his head to be some sort of merciless, snarling monster. Having not expected Levi’s almost _polite_ manner, he hangs back, warily regarding the shorter man as he turns into Mr. Smith’s room.

The fact that he knew Armin by name, well, that’s unsettling enough, but Armin’s confusion only deepens when he enters the room to see that Levi and Erwin have their heads bent together as they speak in low voices. As he watches, Erwin nods and reaches up to thoughtlessly grab hold of the other man’s elbow, to which Levi responds by merely batting his hand away and continuing to talk. Armin catches a few choice phrases – something along the lines of, “—did this for _you_ , Erwin,” and, “I’ll speak to Mike.”

Eventually, Erwin nods again and pulls back from Levi, turning his attention to Armin with a small smile. “Armin,” he begins, and his deep voice has an immediate, calming effect, causing Armin’s rigid shoulders to relax; it’s incredible, really, when Armin considers that he can hardly speak to his own grandfather without tensing up. “Please, come have a seat up front.”

Armin does so without protest, avoiding Levi’s analytical gaze as he sits down at the table closest to Erwin’s desk. Flushing hot under the scrutiny, he realizes how he must look – hair messy, sweater hanging off of one shoulder, face red and damp. He knows that he looks as pathetic as he feels, and that makes it even harder to look Erwin in the eye when he takes a seat on the other side of the table.

“If you would excuse us,” Erwin says, looking at Armin but directing the words at Levi, “I would like to speak with Armin privately.”

“Of course.” Levi begins walking toward the door, and a touch of sarcasm enters his voice as he continues, “Let me know if you need anything else.”

Armin thinks it a strange thing for a vice principal to say to a teacher, even if the acerbity in his tone does offset the meaning. It feels as if the two men are having a silent conversation that they’ve had before, and a strangely intimate rapport has been established between them in a matter of moments, furthered even more so when Erwin speaks again.

“Thank you, Levi,” he says, genuinely grateful.

The dull expression on Levi’s face softens almost imperceptibly. His hand lingers on the doorframe. “It’s no problem.”

And then he’s gone, his footsteps resounding in the silence left in the wake of his departure. Armin turns back toward Erwin to see that the older man is still staring at him, a contemplative look on his handsome face. Nerves have his stomach twisting itself into knots as he waits for his teacher to voice whatever he’s thinking.

“I asked Levi to keep an eye out for you,” Erwin finally says, the answer to a question that Armin couldn’t bring himself to ask. Folding his hands where they rest on the table, he sits back in his chair.

When it’s made apparent that Erwin isn’t going to elaborate, Armin takes a deep breath and brings himself to face the other man fully, curiosity leaving him no other choice but to inquire further. “You did?”

Bobbing his head in affirmation, Erwin purses his lips and seems to meditate on whatever answer he’s about to give. “I wanted to make sure that you were okay after what happened last week,” he explains, and Armin feels his heart clench when he thinks back to the test he failed. “You don’t seem to be doing well.”

Armin is suddenly reminded of what incited his being brought here, and his throat tightens. “I’m fine.”

“I would like,” Erwin begins, leaning forward, “for you to trust me. I may be overstepping my bounds as an educator, but I feel that it is necessary when the situation calls for it. You are not, however, obligated to discuss anything with me, if you feel uncomfortable.”

It’s a quick decision to make, and Armin may regret it later, but he shakes his head, picking at his plastic cover of his binder with the hand that isn’t gripping his own knee with enough force to leave bruises. “I’m not. It’s not actually a . . . school-related problem.”

Erwin raises his eyebrows in a gesture that clearly says, _Continue_.

“My best friend and I, we –“ The word _kissed_ catches in Armin’s throat, leaving a rotten taste at the back of his mouth. “– we had an argument.”

“An argument,” Erwin echoes.

Armin bites his lip. “Yes. We were arguing in the locker room, and my friend said something that upset me, and I – I left class, sir.”

“Would this friend happen to be Mikasa Ackerman?”

Shaking his head, Armin feels almost sick at the mention of Mikasa, realizing that she is inevitably going to find out about what happened. “Her brother,” he answers after a moment, unable to bring himself to say Eren’s name. “Her brother is my best friend.”

 _Was_ , his mind whispers, and Armin’s breathing becomes more irregular, puffing out of him in sharp little pants. He closes his eyes and grips the edge of the table with frightening force, willing himself to calm down, before he feels a hand gently touch his arm. His eyes snap open to see Erwin regarding him carefully, as if poised for a full-blown panic attack.

“Armin,” he says quietly. “Breathe.”

Armin obeys, taking a deep breath and then letting it out slowly, his gaze never leaving Erwin’s. After a few satisfying lungfuls of air, he’s soothed himself enough to begin again. “After I left class, Vice Principal Levi found me in the hall and brought me here.” He pauses, and then adds, “It wasn’t anything important, really.”

Erwin offers up a doubtful look. “You are not the type of person,” he begins thoughtfully, “who likes to let anyone know when you’re having a hard time. You’re on the verge of an anxiety attack, Armin. If it makes you feel this way, it’s _incredibly_ important.”

Armin thinks back to that night in his room, when Eren said, “If they’re making you feel bad, then those things _do_ matter.” An unbelievable sort of grief washes over him, tears springing to his eyes, and _god_ , this is just as embarrassing as the last time, if not more so because of the fact that this concerns his personal life.

But, for some inexplicable reason, the expression on Erwin’s face leads him to continue; _fatherly_ is the wrong word to describe it, and Armin forces himself to stop thinking about it before he can compare the kindness in his eyes to the picture of his mother that sits on the mantel. He turns away from Erwin; that’s the only way he’s going to be able to do this.

“I have . . . _feelings_ for him,” Armin admits hesitantly, a million potential outcomes flashing through his mind’s eye; Erwin ordering him out, Erwin sending him to the guidance counselor, Erwin telling him that, sorry, he can’t do anything to help a pathetic queer kid like him. Holding his breath, he waits for the older man to speak, praying that he’ll at least be kind when he sends Armin away.

When he doesn’t say anything, Armin glances over to see that Erwin’s outward appearance hasn’t changed.

“And he doesn’t return those feelings?” Erwin asks calmly, a trace of compassion in his voice.

 “No,” he replies, looking down at his feet. He swallows. “He doesn’t.”

A brief silence follows that, heavy with the admission. Armin keeps staring at the ground, the fact of Eren’s rejection all the more poignant now that he’s said it out loud. A lump forms in his throat, but he refuses to cry, instead channeling Mikasa and schooling his expression into one of sobriety.

After a minute or so, Erwin stands and walks toward his desk to grab a stack of papers. Armin watches him out of the corner of his eye, confusion mounting when his teacher drops the papers in front of him and places a red pen on top of them.

“Would you like to help me grade some of these assignments?” he asks, and Armin looks up to see him smiling. “We have a few minutes until second period.”

It occurs to Armin that he’s never been more grateful for a teacher – for any adult – in his life, even after such a short amount of time.

He picks up the pen and pulls half of the stack toward himself.

* * *

 

Armin spends lunch in Erwin’s classroom, as well, not even entertaining the idea of facing Eren again. Thus far, he’s managed to avoid him in the hallways, and he isn’t about to run the risk of crossing his path in the cafeteria.

Erwin’s third period class has a different lunch shift, and so he sits at the back while Erwin teaches them how to use the programs in their calculators to do the quadratic formula. Armin laughs when everyone in the class gives a whoop, relieved by the realization that they won’t have to work out any sort of algebraic concept by hand.

Sitting beside of Armin is Marco Bodt, who works diligently the entire time, going so far as to make a few notes in the margins of his text book. Armin finds Marco endearing – always has, even despite Eren’s loathing for anything or anyone associated with Jean Kirschstein – and pays attention to the way that the freckled boy glances from his textbook to Erwin and back to his textbook before scribbling feverishly on a piece of paper.

Eventually, the class is given an assignment, at which point many of the students begin to make light conversation as they work. To Armin’s surprise, Marco turns to him, a nervous look on his face, and tentatively says, “Hey, Armin.”

“Hey,” Armin replies slowly, set on edge by Marco’s apparent uneasiness.

Marco leans forward a little, his voice dropping to an almost-whisper. “I know that Eren saw us the other night,” he begins, fear glinting in his brown eyes. “Jean’s freaking out about it, and – and I kind of am, too, so could you. Like. Keep it to yourself?”

Having forgotten almost everything about Friday aside from the kiss in the parking lot, Armin finally understands the reasoning behind Marco’s hesitance. He instantly feels sorry for the other boy, who looks on the outside the way that Armin usually feels on the inside, and he nods without pause. “Of course,” he says, going for a reassuring tone of voice. “Yeah, I. I would never out someone.”

The expression of relief on Marco’s face is almost heartbreaking, like he’d been expecting either Eren or Armin to shout his secret to the entire lunchroom. Armin wonders what could have instilled such fear in Marco, before realizing that their situations are more similar than he’d initially thought.

“Thank god,” Marco breathes, closing his eyes. “I didn’t know if Eren would – y’know, since he and Jean are always – _shit_ , thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Armin says, and before he thinks about it he’s adding, “I know how you feel.”

Marco’s eyes widen, but it’s then that the bell signaling the end of third lunch rings.

Heart racing, Armin gathers his things and begins weaving his way through the tables toward the exit. Erwin pauses in his teaching momentarily to nod at him, and Armin returns it, warmed by the acknowledgment.

When he reaches the doorway, he looks back at Marco for a brief moment, hoping that the other boy isn’t still staring in astonishment. He’s relieved when Marco simply offers up a wave and a small smile, and Armin heads back to Spanish feeling a little lighter than he did when he got to Mr. Smith’s room.

* * *

He manages to avoid Eren almost entirely for the next few days; during P.E., they both keep their distance, and Armin spends every lunch shift in Erwin’s room, grading papers or talking to Marco in the back. Armin can’t help the ache that blooms in his chest every time he and Eren accidentally lock eyes in the hall, a hollow feeling settling behind his ribs each time he realizes that he hasn’t touched Eren in days, hasn’t laughed or smiled or spoken with his best friend since that morning in the locker room.

Mikasa doesn’t ask about it, which Armin supposes can be interpreted in one of two ways: either Eren has kept quiet about it at home, or Mikasa knows and is wise enough not to mention it to him. She acts the same as she normally does, injecting her quiet humor into their conversations during geometry, and Armin is led to believe that she doesn’t have any idea as to what transpired between he and Eren.

Friday night poses a potential problem, however; normally, the three of them would go to a movie or stay in to spend a night at Armin’s house, but Armin can’t imagine having to pretend that everything is normal, even if it is for Mikasa’s sake.

He’s relieved when Mikasa pulls him aside on Friday morning to tell him that she’ll be spending the evening with Jean and Marco. They’re going to a party in the next town over, and Armin declines when she extends an invitation to him, citing homework and a good night’s sleep as his reasons for not coming. He can tell that she’s slightly disappointed, but she brightens considerably when he promises that he’ll accompany them next weekend.

“Great!” Mikasa says. “Eren’s not coming, either, so I guess you two can have a boy’s night.”

Armin just nods in assent, trying his best not to look hurt. “Yeah.”

* * *

The Orwells are blasting on Armin’s stereo that night when he hears a knock at his window, the music so loud that he almost doesn’t hear it.

He scrambles for his stereo remote and presses the pause button, whipping around to see that Eren is standing on the ledge outside of his room, hands shoved in the pockets of a light grey hoodie. Armin stares for a moment to verify that, yes, it is Eren that he’s seeing, not a random intruder on whom he’s projecting the face of his best friend.

Leaping up from the bed, he rushes over to the window and pushes it open, making a small noise of surprise when Eren falls through and lands loudly on the floor, his knees hitting the carpet with a thump. He moves to help him up but pauses, lingering in a state of awkward appraisal as he watches the other boy stand and brush himself off.

“Out of practice,” Eren says, and the sound of his voice makes Armin’s chest tighten. He looks slightly shaken, unsure of himself and his surroundings. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Armin manages, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of blonde hair behind his ear.

Eren clears his throat and looks around the room, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Ah. New lamp,” he says after a moment, pointing at the one that sits on Armin’s desk.

“I’ve had that since my birthday,” Armin responds, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. He’s not used to being this uncomfortable in Eren’s presence, and he considers asking him to leave, if not just so that he doesn’t have to be reminded of what happened last weekend every time he looks at Eren.

At that thought, he opens his mouth to speak, but Eren interrupts him by releasing a loud groan.

Startled, Armin jumps, eyeing Eren in befuddlement as his friend begins pacing the floor of Armin’s bedroom. Eren scrubs a hand through his hair and releases a few heavy breaths, almost like he’s psyching himself up for whatever he’s about to say, and Armin feels a familiar spark of fondness low in his throat.

After a few seconds, Eren turns to him, his arms out and his palms facing the sky. “We can’t keep doing this,” Eren huffs.

“What are you –“ Armin starts, but Eren interrupts him again.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he says, voice taking on an almost beseeching quality. “I’m talking about –” he waves his arm, indicating the space between them “– _this_. I’m a piece of shit and I deserve it but I. I don’t want to not be your best friend anymore.”

Armin stares at Eren, stunned, barely able to process what the other boy is saying. “You mean,” he begins slowly, “that you want us to be just friends.” As he says it, he feels a sharp twinge of pain in his chest, but he ignores it in favor of looking to Eren for confirmation.

Flinching at Armin’s wording, Eren takes a few steps forward, stopping when there is less than a foot between them. “No. I mean,” he splutters, bringing his hands up to fold them on top of his head. “I don’t know. It’s just – I’m dying, Armin. I’ve been sitting at lunch with _Connie and Sasha_ for the past week, gym is miserable, I can’t _sleep_.” He inhales deeply, closing his eyes. “Mikasa knows something’s up, but she’s not asking, and I need you.”

Breath hitching in his throat, Armin tries to make his mouth work. It proves difficult, his mind preoccupied with evaluating everything Eren just said seven times over, picking apart sentence structure and syllables and inflection until his words don’t even seem like words anymore. He finally decides that a confused look is sufficient enough to convey his emotions.

With a frustrated sigh, Eren reaches down to grab his hands. Armin jolts slightly, this being the first time that Eren has touched him in almost a week.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Eren says, and his voice cracks on the last word, his brows furrowing with sentiment. “I’m so fucking sorry for what I did to you. I just couldn’t figure everything out. My dad –“ he pauses and clears his throat again, something like fear taking up residence on his face “—my dad’s starting to become, like, really vocal about things like this. And I’m not sure what he would do if he found out.”

Squeezing Armin’s hands, he presses their foreheads together, causing the shorter boy to make a small noise in the back of his throat. “You’re my best friend and I don’t know what to do.”

It’s then that Eren begins to cry, and Armin realizes how serious this is; he wasn’t aware of Grisha’s opinion on homosexuality, and rage wells up within him when he thinks about what he could have possibly said to send Eren running into Armin’s arms. Everything about Eren’s reaction makes sense, now, and while that doesn’t necessarily excuse the way he handled the situation, it certainly explains it.

“Shh,” Armin shushes him, wrapping his arms around Eren’s back and letting the taller boy’s head fall into the crook of his neck. “Shh, Eren, it’s okay.”

“ _Armin_ ,” Eren chokes against his skin. “ _Armin_. God, I’m so sorry, I just—“

Pulling back so as to level a look at Eren, Armin says, “I accept your apology, Eren.” His heart stutters when he meets Eren’s red-rimmed gaze, his own eyes brimming as he reaches up to cup his best friend’s face in one hand. “I’m here. I’m here for good, okay?”

Eren looks heartbreakingly young as he nods, his lower lip trembling, his breathing unsteady.

Armin slides out of their embrace and takes Eren’s hand before silently leading him over to the bed. He climbs onto the mattress carefully, pulling Eren along with him, and reclines so that he’s lying on his side with the other boy’s back pressed firmly against his chest. Their legs twist together almost like an afterthought, Armin’s sock-clad feet bumping against Eren’s sneakers as Eren shakes in his grasp.

“It’s okay,” Armin murmurs again.

“He’d hate me,” Eren says, and Armin wishes that he could tell him that he’s wrong, that his parents will love him no matter what. He knows that he can’t make that promise, though, and so he simply buries his face in Eren’s shoulder, holding him even more tightly. “He’d hate me. _Mom_ would hate me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Armin tells him, and Eren lets out a loud sob, curling in on himself and pressing the flat of Armin’s hand into his chest. “I wouldn’t.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for all the comments and kudos!!! i love u
> 
> as always thanks to laura for being my cheerleader and making me wanna write even when nothing's coming out the way i want it to
> 
> also since the last chapter something exciting has happened for the snk fandom! hanji has been confirmed as non-binary!! i was originally going to write them as a transwoman for this fic, but am now going to incorporate their canon identity. this proves difficult, as they teach at a school where it is dangerous to be out as anything other than cishet, and so i hope you'll understand their colleagues' use of female pronouns. erwin and levi are aware of hanji's situation and do everything to ensure their safety in an environment that is less-than-forgiving of queer identities.
> 
> warning for underage drinking in this chapter!!! also there may be a few mistakes because i wrote a majority of this at school while trying to look like i was taking notes so please let me know if you catch anything
> 
> ((follow me at erwinslevi.tumblr.com))

“Your midterm in this class,” Mr. Jackson says on the next Tuesday afternoon, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing them all with a hard gaze, “is to write a paper about three events that you think define your life up to this point.” He walks from his desk to the whiteboard and uncaps a marker before drawing a large, sloppy _3_ underneath where he’s scribbled the day’s vocabulary. “I expect no less than 800 words on each topic.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Armin looks around himself at the other students in the room. The majority of them simply look bored, and only Marco meets his eyes from his seat at the back, mouthing _this sucks_ as Mr. Jackson continues to address the class.

“I’m giving you plenty of advance warning,” Jackson says, with the air of a gracious god who is aware of his own benevolence. He pulls his glasses off of his face and begins to polish the lenses with the hem of his sweater, looking much older than forty-something when he squints at the class. “If you try to turn it in late, you will receive an automatic fifty. If more points need to be deducted after that, well. That depends on how much effort you put into the assignment.”

The disparagement in his tone makes Armin sick to his stomach. Though he hesitates to call anyone cruel, he would readily brand Jackson with it, would spit it in the man’s face if he had the courage. The contrast between Mr. Jackson and Erwin is so stark that Armin can hardly believe that they are able to share the same space without the universe imploding. He wonders if they speak often, unable to imagine that someone as kind and intelligent as Erwin could deign to speak to a man who has made the degradation of children into an art form.

The bell rings as that thought occurs to him, and he heaves an internal sigh of relief as he stands and begins to gather his books.

Eren is waiting outside in the hall, hands shoved in his pockets, foot propped against the wall. He looks up when Armin emerges from the classroom, a bright grin dimpling his cheeks, and Armin can’t fight an answering smile as he approaches the other boy.

“Don’t tell me you skipped history.”

Shaking his head, Eren gives a short, breathy laugh, turning so that he can sling an arm around Armin’s dainty shoulders. “Nah. Ral let us out a little early so that we could go to the library and work on our midterm papers.” He makes a face. “Which are due in, like. October. I haven’t even started.”

The warm weight of Eren’s hand on his shoulder distracts Armin from the reprimand that Eren’s admission nearly elicits. It’s the first time that Eren has casually touched him in in public in weeks, and Armin relishes the contact, settling into Eren’s grip like they haven’t spent the past few days skirting around whatever is going on between them.

He isn’t quite sure where the two of them stand with one another, at this point; Eren has stayed over every night since the night he came into Armin’s room to apologize, but the extent of their physical interaction is limited to holding one another once the lights are off. They don’t discuss what has transpired between them, choosing instead to dance around the topic and one another. Armin occasionally catches Eren giving him thoughtful looks, eyes mercifully devoid of the pity that he’s been afraid of seeing ever since Eren let him down in the locker room. There is a calm contemplation in those gazes, and Armin has to force himself to remain realistic about the intent behind them, not allowing his imagination to stray into John Hughes-ian territory.

Eren gives him one of those looks right now, though his smile is open and friendly. He squeezes Armin’s shoulder and steers him toward the front lobby. “How was English?”

Armin shrugs. “It was okay. We got our midterm assignment. And we have to finish _Macbeth_ on our own this weekend.”

Wrinkling his nose, Eren reaches up to flick at his ear. “Aren’t you going with Mikasa this weekend?”

They come upon the front doors, and Armin pushes one of them open, letting Eren through first. He’d almost forgotten about his promise to attend a party with Mikasa and Marco on Friday, and the reminder has him stifling a groan as he lets the door fall shut behind them. He slumps forward in a half-hearted display of fatigue, one sleeve of his t-shirt falling off of his shoulder. “Don’t remind me,” he says.

“You don’t want to go?” Eren asks, surprise coloring his tone. Beginning to take the stairs down to the bus-loading area two-at-a-time, he purses his lips. When he reaches the asphalt below, he turns around to stare at Armin, who is only halfway down the flight and regards the musing look on Eren’s face with a sort of wary reservation. “I mean, we’ve never been party people, but you know. We’ve never been invited to parties.”

Armin can barely contain a scoff. “Like we would have gone even if we _were_ invited.”

“You’re going, though.”

With a sigh, Armin descends the last few steps and comes to a stop in front of Eren, bringing up a hand to shield his eyes in the fading afternoon light. “I guess,” he says. “You could come, too, you know.”

A loud, boisterous laugh erupts from Eren, and he claps Armin on the back as he turns to walk out into the parking lot. “Me, Jean Kirschstein, and alcohol? I may have not have a four-point-oh, but I know that that’s probably the worst idea anyone could ever have.”

* * *

 

On Friday, Armin forgoes attending the home football game in favor of spending time with Eren in his room. They sit on his bed and listen to music while idly talking about their weeks and working on some of their homework. Armin is a little too jazzed to read Shakespeare, though, his eyes straying to the clock every so often, counting down the minutes until the game is over.

Marco is supposed to pick him up after he and Jean have changed out of their uniforms, and Armin can’t quite decide if he’s excited about that or not; he’s never been to a high school party, as Eren intermittently reminds him throughout their little study session, and he’s not sure exactly what he needs to prepare himself for. He’s seen _Sixteen Candles_ , but he’s not entirely sure if that’s a credible basis upon which to build his expectations for the evening ahead.

A horn blares from outside at the same time Armin’s phone rings, and he practically leaps off of the bed. His clock reads _10:15_ , and he finds himself hesitating as he grabs his coat from the doorknob of his closet. He can feel Eren watching him as he looks from the window to the door, and he turns to his best friend after a moment to make a helpless noise and open his arms as if asking for some sort of advice.

Ever the telepath, Eren shrugs. “Don’t get alcohol poisoning. I’ll be here when you get back.”

By the time he’s made it down the stairs and past his grandfather (“Be back before morning, please.”) Jean has beeped the horn at least a dozen more times. Armin breaks into a run once he’s through the front door, rolling his eyes when he sees Jean lean on the steering wheel again; the more time Armin spends around Jean Kirschstein, the more he understands exactly why he and Eren have such a hard time being in the same room.

Mikasa waves and pushes the back door open for him as he approaches the car. Armin nods gratefully, sliding into the backseat and pulling it shut behind him.

“Are you ready?” Marco asks from the passenger seat, turning to give Armin a kind smile and pat his knee where it bumps against the console. He still has a smear of paint below one eye, presumably left over from the game, and it matches the smudge of black that hides under the hinge of Jean’s jaw.

Armin isn’t quite sure how to answer the question, but he does anyway. “Sure.”

* * *

 

The party isn’t quite what Armin had in mind; the music isn’t pumping at an insane decibel, no one is lying unconscious on the floor, and the flat surfaces are almost completely devoid of fornicating teenagers. It takes Armin only a few seconds to realize that the movies have taken liberties when it comes to portraying the High-School House Party, and part of him is immensely relieved because of it. The fact that he does not stumble over any alcohol-leaden bodies as he follows Marco and Mikasa down the front hall does wonders to quell his worries that he could join their ranks by the end of the evening.

A mixture of excitement and uneasiness settles low in his stomach as he begins to walk in step with the Vampire Weekend song that thrums throughout the house at a reasonable volume. He’s twisting his hands in front of him by the time they emerge from the hallway and enter a room full of laughing people. He tries to force himself to relax, knowing that he probably looks as new to this as he is.

Keeping close to Mikasa, Armin examines the room for any familiar faces. He comes up with nothing; it seems that he, Mikasa, Marco, and Jean are the only Rose students in attendance. It comes as both a relief and an unwelcome truth – a relief because the likelihood of his grandfather finding out is slim to nil, and the latter because this means that any introductions he makes will come from a place of zero common ground.

“Okay, where’s the liquor?” Jean asks from behind him. “I was promised grape Smirnoff.”

Marco turns around to look past Armin, his brows coming together in an inexplicable kind of concern. “Hold on, Jean,” he tells the other boy, and Jean huffs quietly, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “I don’t even see Reiner anywhere.”

Armin commits Marco’s expression to memory, setting a mental reminder to ask him about it later. He looks to Mikasa, who, when she catches his eye, offers a wry smile and a small wink. She appears to be surprisingly at-ease among the throngs of socializing teenagers, leaning coolly against the wall – though Armin quickly realizes that it isn’t very surprising at all, considering that she grew up in a house with Eren Jaeger, who could make himself at home in a crack den.

Marco suddenly bumps into him in an attempt to intercept the hulking form of someone Armin doesn’t recognize. He must be the person responsible for the alcohol, if Jean’s eager expression is anything to go by.

“Hey, Reiner,” Marco begins when the boy turns around – though Armin thinks that _boy_ might be an inaccurate descriptor for someone who is over two times his own size. “Is the set-up in the kitchen?”

“Yeah. There’s a table over by the couch, too,” is the guy’s answer. He seems distracted, his beady gaze scanning the room. “I’ll see you in a bit. I gotta find Bert.”

Armin feels more than slightly out-of-place among so many strangers, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it when Mikasa grabs his wrist and begins tugging him toward what he assumes is the kitchen. Jean bounds ahead of them, fists thrust in the air, and Marco’s answering sigh has Armin swallowing a small laugh. He picks up his stride, walking beside of Mikasa instead of leaving her to drag him.

As they cross the threshold into the kitchen, Mikasa simply says, “Go slow, at first.”

Armin is too busy surveying the collection of bottles and cans that litter the island in the middle of the room to make a note of Mikasa’s words, eyes widening at the sudden and very real prospect of breaking the law.

“Don’t drink the Burnett’s. It’s cheap,” she’s saying as Jean upends a bottle of brown liquor into an oversized shot glass. “And don’t do the Fireball, either.” She pauses. “If you’re drinking at all, that is.”

When Armin looks at her, she’s giving leveling him with a serious, steady stare. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, you know.” Her voice is soft in a way that reminds him of Eren, and Armin is suddenly very grateful that she’s here for this. “I usually don’t.”

He blinks. “Then how do you know so much about it?”

Mikasa just points to his right, and he turns to watch as Jean downs the entire shot glass of whiskey in one fluid motion. He winces at the way Jean’s face scrunches up; he’s heard that alcohol burns going down, and so he figures it isn’t much of a stretch to gather that Jean is in actual pain.

“Hell yeah,” Jean says, almost to himself, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Armin just nods. He’d gotten in the car earlier figuring that he would be drinking tonight, and the fact that he’s not obligated to makes him feel a little bit better about coming to the party. He thinks briefly of the homework he still has to finish, of the copy of _Macbeth_ that sits on his desk; after a moment, however, he huffs in resignation and asks, “What did you say was cheap, again?”

An amused smile quirks up the sides of Mikasa’s mouth. “Marco will mix something for you.”

 _Something_ turns out to be a revolting concoction of vodka and the apple-flavored Snapple that Marco manages to find at the back of the huge refrigerator in the corner. Armin can hardly force himself to swallow it, which elicits a sympathetic half-smile from Mikasa and a braying laugh from Jean. The alcohol really does burn as it goes down, though it settles in his chest with a sort of pleasant warmth.

The simple knowledge that he’s straying from what would be considered his “normal” behavior is enough to make him keep drinking as Marco leads him back into the living room to introduce him to his friends from Sina High. He swallows back the anxiety bubbling up in his throat at the prospect of meeting new people; in this moment, feeling unlike himself is a welcome respite from the past few weeks’ worth of events, and he chokes down as much of the disgusting mixed drink as he can as they weave through the crowd of dancing teenagers.

They come upon a small group that disperses the moment Marco taps on the tallest boy’s shoulder. Armin recognizes him as the guy that they ran into upon first entering the house.

“This is Reiner,” Marco says, gesturing between the two of them. “His dad is the pastor at First Baptist. We’ve gone to church together since we were little kids.”

The boy before Armin is blonde, muscular, and of considerable height. His hair is close-cropped, erring on the side of buzz-cut territory, and it emphasizes his small, dark eyes. Armin supposes that he might find him attractive, if it weren’t for the severe line of his jaw and his sheer, threatening mass. When he takes into account the fact that Reiner is the son of a preacher, he realizes that he probably has no business even breathing the same air as this boy.

Still, he extends a hand. “Hi,” Armin says, mustering a timid smile. “I’m Armin.”

Reiner gives a short nod, taking Armin’s hand, and his voice isn’t quite that of a grizzly bear when he speaks. “Hey.”

Armin releases his hold on the other boy, jamming his hands into his back pockets. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Marco looking between the two of them with an amused grin on his face. Armin shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, bringing his drink up to his face and wincing as he takes a sip.

“I’m gonna go find Jean,” Marco says after a moment, jerking a thumb to his right and taking a few steps toward the kitchen. “I think he was going to play speedball, and he really can’t hold his vodka . . .”

Holding up a hand, Reiner shakes his head. “Spare us the details. Go get him.”

The tenderness in those last three words would be lost on most, but Armin cocks his head in the slightest, watching as Reiner bids Marco goodbye. After a moment’s observation, he chalks it up to an enduring fondness, the product of years of friendship. The thought that Marco would tell the son of his pastor about his _boyfriend_ is laughable, even if he and Reiner have been friends since childhood.

The sound of glass breaking interrupts his train of thought, and Armin grimaces, wondering if Marco got to Jean a little too late.

As if reading his mind, Reiner releases a low whistle. He takes a quick swig of whatever he’s drinking but, unlike Armin, doesn’t wince. “Bert’s gonna freak,” he says.

“Bert . . ?” Armin begins, letting the word trail off until it’s a question.

“Bertholdt,” Reiner replies between drinks, and Armin has time to realize that he vaguely recognizes the name before the other boy continues, “Fubar. The guy who lives here.”

Nodding, Armin leans against the back of the couch, trying to at least appear relaxed. “Oh. Where is he?” he asks, because he’s genuinely curious; having any sort of party would have him on edge, and he doesn’t even want to think about what he would do if someone was breaking things in his grandfather’s house. Undoubtedly, he would be so worried that he wouldn’t be able to enjoy the party, and he figures that Reiner’s concern is indicative enough of the fact that this Bertholdt person shares his feelings.

“I don’t even fucking know,” Reiner says. His accompanying shrug is a tad too emphatic to be casual. “Probably with his girlfriend. You probably know her. Her name’s Annie Leonhardt. She goes to Rose.”

“Yeah, she’s in my English class,” Armin answers, thinking of the day that Mr. Jackson called her ignorant during the middle of a discussion about Edgar Allan Poe. He chooses not to comment on the bitterness that was apparent in Reiner’s tone when he mentioned Annie; it makes him wonder as to whether or not Reiner might have a thing for her, but he knows better than to approach a sensitive subject with a six-foot-tall virtual stranger. “I don’t really know her that well.”

Reiner exhales loudly, his cheeks bulging with it. “Consider yourself luck –“

From the kitchen, Jean interrupts him by shouting, “ _Body shots!_ ”

Snorting, Reiner folds his arms, biceps flexing impressively. He idly kicks at the couch leg, a scowl twisting his mouth, and Armin would say that he was annoyed if he didn’t recognize the long-suffering resignation on his face, reminiscent of the looks he and Mikasa exchange when Eren begins to get out of hand. It’s odd to think about, but he supposes that Jean is sort of like the Eren of his quaint little circle – if not even more hot-tempered – and it occurs to him that Jean and Eren might be even more alike than he’d initially thought.

“I’m sorry,” Reiner says after a minute or so, pulling Armin back into reality. “I’m not used to making small talk at parties. Normally I’d be throwing them back like Jean.” He seems to think about that for a moment. “I mean. Not like _Jean_.”

“I’m not used to parties, period,” Armin admits. A beat of silence passes, in which he sloshes his drink in his cup and looks around the small crowd of intoxicated teenagers. “This is a great song,” he notes, bobbing his head to the beat of whatever is coming from the speakers. He internally cringes at his own inability to socialize but otherwise maintains an expression of careful detachment, hoping that he doesn’t completely embarrass himself before the night is over.

Reiner breaks into a wide smile, though, and in it Armin catches a glimpse of the All-American boy he’d originally come off as. “Really? It’s Drake. I always do the mixes for Bertholdt’s parties.”

Eyebrows rising in surprise, Armin leans forward into the conversation. “I thought I heard some Vampire Weekend earlier,” he says, and the fact that he’s impressed is made obvious by the admiration in his voice.

“Yeah, man.” With a laugh, Reiner shakes his head. “Bert hates them.”

“Mikasa is Ezra Koenig’s, like, biggest fan.”

“Mikasa?” Reiner’s brows draw together in thought. “Is that the girl who came in with you?”

Nodding, Armin takes another drink, grimacing but relishing the warmth that blooms in his chest. He glances into his cup to see that it’s almost empty, and he gets a little satisfaction out of knowing that he originally couldn’t swallow the stuff without choking.

“And her brother is the Jaeger kid?”

Armin jolts a little at the mention of his best friend. “Uh, yeah. Do you know Eren?”

“Jean has mentioned him a couple of times.”

Making a face that’s halfway between chagrinned and amused, Armin reaches up to run a hand through his hair. “I can infer that you don’t have the most stellar impression of him.”

Waving a hand, Reiner leans over to grab another Solo cup from the table set up beside of the couch. “Nah,” he answers, voice slightly strained with the effort of stretching over the back of the sofa. “Jean talks shit about everyone but Marco.”

A small, hiccupping giggle escapes Armin without his permission. His eyes widen in wonder.

“You don’t drink much, do you?” Reiner asks, eyes glinting with subtle mirth.

“Never.” Armin downs the rest of his cup, nearly gagging now that it’s room temperature. “Like, this is the first time,” he adds. A slight pause follows the admission, during which he tips his head back in thought. “I haven’t made up my mind about it, yet.”

“In that case,” Reiner says, “let’s get you another.”

* * *

 

“Am I drink? Drunk?” Armin is asking an hour later, nursing his fourth vodka-and-Snapple and swaying slightly toward Reiner, whose feet are planted solidly on the ground that seems to tilt underneath Armin. “I think I am . . . maybe.”

Reiner is on his sixth beer, but he doesn’t seem at all affected by the alcohol in his system. His voice is a pleasant hum in Armin’s ear when he speaks. “You should probably slow down,” he warns, reaching for the cup in Armin’s hand.

Armin releases it without protest, letting his arm fall limply by his side. “I don’t know where my friends are.”

Draining the rest of Armin’s drink, Reiner looks around the room – which, Armin notes dizzily, is only sparsely populated by other teenagers. He wonders if they’ve all left or if they have simply gone upstairs, before deciding that he is much more interested in Mikasa’s whereabouts.

“Where’s Marco?” he asks, tugging on Reiner’s sleeve in an uncharacteristically physical gesture.

“Probably with Jean,” is the taller boy’s unhelpful reply.

Armin makes a face. “I shouldn’t be drunk,” he mutters, and speaks louder as he continues, “I’m a straight-A student. I have tests to study for, you know.”

Reiner laughs at that, throwing his whole body into the sound. “So do I,” he tells Armin with a grin. “Come on. Let’s find you a ride home.”

It doesn’t take long to find Mikasa; she and Marco are sitting in front of the bathroom door, looking unimpressed with the retching noises that come from the other side. They lean against one another, discussing something in voices that are too quiet for Armin to catch in his inebriated state. He isn’t too drunk to know that it’s Jean behind the bathroom door, though, and he traipses over to give Marco a sympathetic pat on the back.

Marco screws up one side of his mouth and tilts his head back to look at him. “Hey, Armin.”

“Mm,” Armin hums. “Jean’s sick.”

Grabbing hold of Mikasa’s hand, Marco begins to stand, pulling her along as he does so. He brushes himself off in a gesture that’s too dexterous to be indicative of drunkenness, and Armin realizes with delayed astonishment that he hasn’t seen Marco drinking all night. Somewhere in the back of his muddled mind, a feeble connection is drawn between Marco’s sobriety and the sound of Jean vomiting in the other room.

Mikasa checks her watch and gives Marco a significant look. “It’s almost one,” she says. “Grisha will go ballistic if he catches me sneaking in.”

“Alright,” Marco says, and closes his eyes before rapping lightly on the bathroom door. “Jean?”

“Give me a second,” Jean rasps from the other side.

The sound of the tap turning on follows his words, and Armin doesn’t miss the look of relief on Marco’s face as he lets his forehead fall against the door. “I’m going to go in and help him,” Marco tells them, pulling back from his leaning position to wave in the direction of the front hall. “Go on to the car, it might take a minute.”

Mikasa puts an arm around Armin’s back and begins to steer him away, but Armin twists his head around to watch as Marco enters the bathroom and cups Jean’s face in one palm, feeling his forehead with the back of his other hand. It’s an incredibly intimate sight to behold, accompanied by murmurs of _sweetheart_ and _are you going to be able to make it to the car?_ , and normally Armin would have already looked away, cheeks burning in shame at having witnessed something so private.

He chooses to at that moment, facing forward as Mikasa leads him toward the exit. Belatedly, he realizes that Reiner is still walking with them. It occurs to him that this must be a regular thing, and an ineffable sadness swells behind his ribs, sobering him for long enough to have him twining his fingers with Mikasa’s and pressing more closely to her side.

When they reach the car, he asks, without looking at her, “Is Jean okay?”

From the look on her face, she must understand what he means. “You know, don’t you?”

He just nods.

“He can’t deal with it,” she says after a moment, and Armin notes with some alarm that Reiner is still standing there. “It’s been getting worse. Marco used to drink with him, but he’s afraid to when Jean gets like this.” Releasing her grip on Armin’s hand, she hugs her chest tightly, her cheeks chilled pink by the fall air. “We’d stop coming, but he thinks Jean would just come alone instead.”

Reiner grunts quietly, indicating the opposite direction with the bottle of Heineken that he still clutches in one hand. “There they are,” he says, and Armin turns to see that Marco is supporting Jean as they walk down the front steps and begin to cross the lawn. “You’ve all got it from here?”

“Yes, thanks,” Mikasa answers. “Go in and have fun.”

With a smirk, Reiner holds his beer up as if giving a toast. “The sentiment is nice, but I don’t see that happening.”

Armin’s mind moves at a lethargic crawl, unable to make sense of his words, and he is left to simply look on as Reiner sets off at a jog toward the house, stopping along the way to quickly say something to Marco before bounding up the steps and through the door.

* * *

 

There are not any deities in any universe that Armin could appropriately thank for the fact that his grandfather is not waiting up for him. Despite having had a bottle of water from Jean’s glove compartment and a few minutes of fresh air, he is still tipsy enough to fumble with his keys for a full thirty seconds before he manages to fit the right one into the lock. He isn’t so sure that Adrian would be able to tell that something was off, but he’s grateful that he won’t have to make that gamble.

He climbs the stairs with relief flooding his tired body. His coat falls from his shoulders somewhere on the second-floor landing, but he ignores it in favor of making his way down the hall toward his bedroom, where a small rectangle of light shines from the crack at the bottom of the door.

 _Eren is here_ , he remembers, and feels a broad smile spread over his face.

The bedroom doorknob proves to be tricky for Armin, but he gets it after a litany of whispered swearwords has fallen from his mouth. He shoves the door open with his shoulder, stumbling over a pair of his shoes as he enters. A short yelp escapes him, loud enough that he could conceivably wake his grandfather, and he looks up to see Eren smothering laughter in the arm of one of Armin’s sweatshirts.

“Shh, oh my god,” Armin says, closing the door softly behind him. “Don’t laugh.”

Eren moves his arm so that he can speak. He clears his throat, and Armin can tell that he’s trying to stifle a grin. “Did you have fun, then?”

Armin walks over to the bed and plops down, bringing his feet up to tug his boots off. “I guess,” he says. “I made a friend. Jean got really drunk and it upset Marco. Mikasa, too.”

“Mikasa got drunk?!”

Shaking his head, Armin crosses his legs and leans back against the wall. He reaches for Eren’s hand and pulls it up, sending what looks like his chemistry book onto the floor. “No,” he replies, lacing their fingers together and feeling his face flush when Eren squeezes his hand. “She was sad about Jean, too.”

“Were _you_ sad about Jean?” Eren asks, but the teasing has left his voice.

Armin thinks about that, biting his lip and turning to look Eren in the eyes. He thinks about how pale Jean looked in the car, forehead propped against the window as Marco massaged the back of his neck with the hand that wasn’t on the steering wheel. “Yeah. Yeah, I was,” he answers. “Mikasa told me he can’t deal with it. Being with Marco, I mean.”

That seems to floor Eren; his eyebrows shoot up and he sucks in a quick breath. Armin never thought he would witness Eren Jaeger feeling sorry for Jean Kirschstein, but that seems to be exactly what is happening before him. Something deep within him aches when he realizes that the expression on Eren’s face is one of complete and total understanding, and the thought that Eren could be driven to such lengths by whatever has been going on between he and Armin is too much for Armin to consider in his current state.

Eren comes back to himself after a minute. “That . . . that’s rough,” he says, looking down to where their hands are clasped. He rubs his thumb over Armin’s and exhales shakily. “You’d tell me if you felt like that?”

Eren’s ceaseless ability to make everything about his concern for others is infuriatingly touching, and now is no exception. Armin uses his free hand to gently cradle Eren’s jaw, to which the other boy responds by shuttering his gaze and beginning to take deep, level breaths. Armin just stares at him for a bit, and he’s not sure if it’s the influence of alcohol or genuine bravery that causes him to lean in and press their lips together.

Immediately leaning into it, Eren presses flush against Armin and untangles their fingers so that he can grab Armin’s face. Armin reels slightly, heart thudding in his ears as he opens his mouth and begins to snake a hand up the back of Eren’s shirt, splaying it against the warm skin there. _I love you_ , he thinks, wishing that he could say it out loud. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

Eren pulls away slightly. “You’re drunk,” he says against Armin’s mouth, the words dragging their lower lips together.

“I’m tipsy,” Armin corrects him, now aware enough of himself that he can confidently do so. “And I would anyway.”

Eren gives him a small peck and then moves away, laughing at the small huff of disappointment that Armin releases. “Nice try.” He leans over to pick his chemistry text book off of the floor, just barely managing to catch a few of the papers that flutter from between its pages. “This is complicated enough when you’re sober.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for all the reviews and kudos!!!! ur great
> 
> thanks to laura samwinchester for being a HUGE encouragement and always being there in case i need an opinion ily
> 
> MAJOR warning for homophobia in this chapter

“Armin Arlert, please stay behind,” Mr. Smith says after class on Monday, his firm voice audible even in the din that commences after the bell rings, the words rising above the deafening mixture of gossip and laughter and _how-was-your-weekend_ that is being exchanged between two dozen teenagers. He shuffles through a few papers on his desk as he does so, large hands easily navigating the stack before he extracts a couple of pieces that are messily stapled together.

 _Tests_ , Armin thinks, shoulders automatically tensing. “Okay,” he calls toward the front of the room, a nervous lilt to his voice.

Mikasa gives him a curious look but says nothing, instead giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before walking toward the door. The rest of the students file out around her, and after a few moments only he and Erwin are left in the room, Erwin flipping through the test in his hands as Armin lingers amidst the back row of seats. Armin quickly deliberates before placing his books on the nearest table and pulling up a chair, mentally preparing himself for whatever Erwin wants to discuss.

Eventually, Erwin gets up, paper still in hand as he heads toward the back of the room. “How have you been?” he asks as he takes a seat on the table in front of Armin, large hands folded over one knee.

Armin gnaws on his bottom lip for a second as he mulls the question over, eyes straying to the exam that Erwin is holding. “Fine,” he decides, and then affirms, as if to himself, “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I saw you walking out with someone on Friday. That was the Jaeger boy, I presume?”

Blinking, Armin looks up at Erwin to see that the man is smiling kindly down at him, lips closed over his white teeth. “Eren. Yes, that was him,” Armin answers, astounded by the thought that someone could be paying that much attention to his little existence. Oddly enough, it instills within him a sense of being looked after – of being _cared for_ – and Armin feels a sudden, fierce affection for Erwin.

“You worked everything out, then?”

Armin nods. “I mean, it’s not –“ He struggles for words adequate enough to describe the situation, before remembering what Eren said after the party on Friday night. “It’s complicated.”

A knowing look crosses Erwin’s features. “Complicated,” he echoes, and Armin wonders at the mirth in his tone. “I can understand that.”

Armin fidgets awkwardly in his seat as Erwin seems to lose himself in thought. This is different than all of the other times he’s spoken to Erwin -- not just because he isn’t in a state of emotional distress, but also because Erwin seems to be distracted, distant. The small, fond smile on his face is reassuring, though, even if the intent behind it is a mystery to Armin. He almost gets the feeling that he’s missing something, like Erwin is laughing at a private joke.

Erwin stands, then, with a sigh and a sharp slap to his thighs. The motion startles Armin, who’d been so busy analyzing his teacher’s expression that he’s forgotten that he has somewhere to be. He stands with Erwin, clutching his books to his chest as he waits for some indication as to what he’s supposed to do now.

“I suppose that you should head to . . . Spanish?” he asks, and, when Armin nods, he continues, “Hanji will excuse you. At this point, I don’t think you will need a note.”

For another fleeting moment, Erwin hesitates, and Armin only has just enough time to wonder what he’s doing before the taller man claps a hand down on his shoulder, firm and comforting and warm through the material of Armin’s sweater.

Though his grip is that of a father, his gaze reminds him incontrovertibly of – and Armin can’t stop himself from thinking the word – his _mother_. His eyes are soft, effortlessly commanding Armin’s attention as he begins to speak in a low voice.

“I understand every bit of what you’re feeling,” Erwin says, and the meaning behind the words is so suddenly, strikingly evident that it nearly knocks the breath out of Armin. “I wholeheartedly identify with the fear, and the trepidation, and the anger with which you have to go about dealing with something like this. Even though overwhelming evidence may point to the contrary, you are not alone here.”

Floored, Armin stares up at the older man, unable to muster the words for a sufficient and intelligible reply. The implications behind what Erwin has just told him send Armin’s mind into a frenzy, the forefront of his consciousness summoning details from his every interaction with Erwin -- particularly the day when Vice Principal Levi found him crying in the hall. He recalls the ease between the two men, the familiarity that bordered on intimacy, and that simple memory brings everything into sudden clarity. Erwin’s easy acceptance regarding his feelings for Eren makes sense for the first time since that day, and the part of Armin that isn’t reeling from his epiphany revels in the fact that he can be himself with Erwin, that he no longer has to keep this aspect of his being tucked away. He’s awash with an immense relief, his entire body made lighter with the realization.

“Oh,” Armin finally manages, face growing hot under the intense look that his teacher is still directing at him. “I – I understand.”

Erwin squeezes Armin’s shoulder and then releases it. He pulls away, reaching up to scrub the flat of his hand across his forehead, eyes closing. His shoulders sag almost imperceptibly, and Armin thinks that this may be the first time he’s seen his teacher as anything other than his usual composed self. He finds solace in the weariness on Erwin’s handsome face, in the invisible battle scars that his mind projects onto it; Erwin has been where he is, and he seems to be okay. That’s enough, for now.

“Spanish,” Erwin says, halting Armin’s beginning reverie. “You need to get to Spanish.”

Bobbing his head mindlessly, Armin leans down to scoop his books into his arms and pull his bag over his shoulder. “Yeah, I really should,” Armin replies, and his next words are slightly stilted, falling clumsily from his tongue; he briefly considers not saying them at all, blush deepening as he lets his gaze meet the older man’s. “Thank you, Erwin.”

The older man’s face returns to its resting calm, and if the smile that he offers is counterfeit in any way, it’s unapparent to Armin. “I almost forgot,” he says, extending a hand, and Armin realizes with a jolt that he’s still holding the test from earlier. “You passed. With flying colors.”

* * *

 

Armin’s good mood must be palpable, as Eren asks him about it the moment he sits down for lunch.

“Are you okay?” his best friend inquires, brows creased in perplexity as he watches Armin go about unwrapping his sandwich.

“Mm?” Armin hums, bouncing a bit as he takes a bite of his food. He turns to Eren, a close-lipped grin twisting up one side of his mouth as he chews. Swallowing, he has to fight a laugh when he notices the befuddlement on Eren’s face. “Yeah. I’m good.” He bumps his shoulder against the other boy’s, indulging in the easy smile that Eren offers in response. “I’m so good.”

Nodding, Eren snickers a little. He pops a chip into his mouth and presses more firmly against Armin’s side. “And what in the world has put you in such a great mood?” he asks, voice saturated with amusement.

Armin shrugs. “I talked to Erwin this morning.”

“Armin Arlert referring to a teacher by their first name?” Eren clutches his chest in mock disbelief. “I can’t believe this.”

The easy, flirty rapport that they’ve recently reestablished does nothing but heighten Armin’s mood. “I got an A on the last test,” he tells Eren. He refrains from mentioning the bulk of his conversation with Erwin, unsure as to whether or not he wants to relate something that private – even to Eren. The trust that Erwin has put in him by telling him something so personal is something that Armin cherishes, and, though he knows Eren wouldn’t tell a soul, he wants to keep the knowledge for himself as a testament to his implicit, tenuous bond with Erwin.

“Hey,” Eren says, reaching up to ruffle Armin’s hair. “I told you that you’d do okay.”

“Yeah.” Taking another bite of his sandwich, Armin chews thoughtfully and looks around the cafeteria until he catches sight of a group of football players sitting a few tables away. “So, are you going to the game on Friday?”

Eren huffs, and Armin looks over to see that his forehead now rests against the tabletop. “Mikasa isn’t even going,” Eren answers, and looks up before continuing, “Mom wants us to have a family dinner or whatever.”

Making a face, Armin pats his back. “That’s unfortunate.”

With a small, strangled groan, Eren sits upright again. “It’s just going to be Dad talking about politics the whole time. Like, you know how I haven’t invited you over to mine in a few months? That’s why.” He shakes his head. “Once he gets started on any of that bullshit, especially –“

Eren clenches his fists and takes a few deep breaths. Armin thinks he has a good idea of what he was going to say, but forgoes asking about it in favor of placing a calming hand on Eren’s right bicep.

“Anyway,” Eren continues eventually, noticeably relaxing under Armin’s touch, “it’s going to be a disaster.”

Armin lets his hand drift until he’s idly playing his fingers over the skin of the other boy’s wrist. “At least you can come over afterward.”

Sighing, Eren lets his shoulders slump forward. “It’d be better if you were just. There with me.” As he says it, his eyes widen slightly, and he turns the full force of an imploring gaze on Armin when he continues, “Oh my god, come to dinner.”

Having anticipated this possibility, Armin closes his eyes. “You’re not going to let me get out of this one, are you?”

Eren smirks. “Nah,” is his answer, delivered as he knocks one knee against Armin’s. He tilts his head in the slightest, and Armin tries to abate his breathing, reminding himself that Eren is a natural flirt, that there may not be – and probably isn’t – anything significant behind his behavior.

He has a hard time justifying that thought, however, when Eren leans a little closer and begins to speak again.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs somewhere near the shorter boy’s ear, and it’s simultaneously the most ridiculous and the most sensual thing that Armin has heard in his seventeen years of life. There is a joking quality to Eren’s voice, but underneath it lies a promise, and Armin can only shiver as he leans back and looks around them to see if anyone is watching.

“Ha, okay, um,” Armin stutters, tripping over every word that comes to his mind before he settles on, “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Eren punches his shoulder lightly and turns so that he’s facing his food. He takes a quick swig of his Coke as Armin blinks at him. “Dinner starts at eight.”

“I’m studying with Marco and Reiner after school but. Yeah. I can make it.”

“Reiner?” Eren asks, his expression one of mild confusion. “The guy you met at the party?”

His puzzlement is understandable; Armin himself had been taken aback when he asked Marco to come over and Marco requested that he be able to bring Reiner along. Armin doesn’t mind, by any means – he had a good time with the football player at the party, and the fact that Mikasa trusts him is enough for him to do the same. However, he can’t quite figure out what why Reiner would have any interest in hanging out with him.

When he takes a moment to think about it, he supposes that Reiner might not have as many friends as Armin thinks he does. With the exception of Jean, Marco, Mikasa, and the Bertholdt guy that he mentioned, he didn’t seem to want to associate with anyone besides Armin at the party last week. It’s possible that his friends just happened to not be present that night, but that theory doesn’t quite sit well with Armin, either.

“Yes,” Armin finally answers Eren’s question, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind his ear and shrugging one shoulder. “Marco had already made plans with Reiner when I asked him to come over, and he wanted to know if he could come with.”

Sitting back a little, Eren nods contemplatively, blinking a few times at the empty air in front of him. “Oh.” He reaches up to tug at his lower lip, still not looking at Armin. “Okay.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Eren replies, and takes a deep breath before turning back toward Armin. He musters a sorry approximation of a smile that falters before he can speak again. “It’s just that . . . this guy doesn’t . . . _like_ you, or anything, does he?”

Armin quickly reaches up to cover his mouth, the absurdity of the question prompting him to stifle a laugh against the flat of his palm. Despite his best efforts, a snort escapes him, and he can barely school his expression enough to properly answer. “No, oh my god,” he says, shaking his head emphatically. “If you saw this guy, he’s – he’s like _massive_ – chiseled jaw, buzz-cut, the works. He’s a _pastor’s son_ , for god’s sake.”

“So? That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I mean, yeah, but. Trust me,” Armin says, and then adds, even though it’s just speculation, “He has something for his best friend’s girlfriend, anyway. He was grumbling about it when I first introduced myself.”

Giving him a doubtful look, Eren takes another drink from his can of soda. “I like to think that I have a pretty spot-on gaydar.”

“You obviously don’t.”

“Oh yeah?”

There’s a challenge in Eren’s eyes, and Armin counters it with his best game-face. “You aren’t exactly the most adept at reading people, Eren Jaeger,” he says. “Some might so far as to say ‘oblivious.’”

“And what am I oblivious to?”

It’s then that Armin realizes they are incredibly close, faces only inches apart. He feels a flush creep up his neck until his cheeks are burning, but he keeps looking at Eren, waiting to see what he’ll do. He sometimes forgets that Eren has no idea as to the depths of Armin’s feelings for him, and it’s times like this that make him wonder how it isn’t obvious, how Eren can’t hear his heart beating under the thin material of his sweater.

Eren’s cocky grin fades until it’s gone, and he clears his throat before pulling away. “Uh, dinner,” he says. “Eight o’clock. Don’t forget.”

* * *

 

Armin spends the rest of the week dreading Friday night more and more with each passing day. It’s not that he doesn’t _like_ Eren’s family; his mother, Carla, has always been nothing but kind to Armin. And, of course, Mikasa will be there.

The problem is Grisha Jaeger.

Though he hasn’t spoken to Eren’s father in months, Armin’s relatively neutral opinion of him has been utterly wrecked in the wake of Eren’s outburst two weeks ago. Just the thought of Grisha makes his blood boil, as it is now accompanied by the memory of Eren crying in his arms as he repeated the words, _He’d hate me, he’d hate me_ and clutched Armin so tightly that it hurt. Anyone causing Eren pain is bad enough, but when Armin thinks about the fact that it’s his own father, he can’t help but want to pack Eren and his belongings into his shitty Saturn and drive until they reach the ocean.

As it is, that option remains an impossibility at the moment, and so he can only be there for Eren through all of this; and if “being there” means suffering through a meal with Eren’s family, then Armin is willing to do it – even if it entails exposing himself to the whims of a homophobic, middle-aged man.

When he explains this to Marco on Friday afternoon, the freckled boy makes a face and gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. They’ve been sitting on Armin’s bed with their books open for over an hour but have yet to begin studying, forgoing their English homework in favor of discussing the grimness of their respective situations. Reiner sits quietly at Armin’s desk, scrawling in a notebook full of pre-calculus problems as the other two ignore the work they have to do.

Inexplicably, Armin is okay with Reiner’s presence and participation in the conversation; he finds an easy trust in him, like the older boy would be unfazed by and unbiased about anything that Armin could possibly tell him. He is comfortable discussing Eren in Reiner’s company, even if he notices that the other boy begins to grow visibly discomfited as the conversation continues.

“Shitty dads are something I’m familiar with,” Marco says as he removes his hand from Armin’s shoulder, and Armin notices that Reiner tenses up slightly, his pencil pausing against his paper. “I mean, I just have my mom to worry about, but she probably won’t have a problem with me dating a boy.” He worries his lower lip between his teeth and then releases it. “Jean, on the other hand . . .”

“Is it bad?” Armin can’t help but ask, looking between Marco and the back of Reiner’s head.

Marco closes his eyes. “Yeah,” he answers, nodding. “Yeah.”

A deafening silence follows his reply, filled only when Reiner resumes furiously scribbling math problems into his notebook. Part of Armin wants to know more, wants to ask how Jean deals with homophobic parents; Armin has only his grandfather, whose opinion on the subject is currently unknown, and he’d like another perspective. Marco’s take on Jean’s situation could shed new light on _Eren’s_ situation, and curiosity overwhelms him to the point where the question is at the tip of his tongue. He decides not to let it escape him when he sees that Marco still hasn’t opened his eyes.

The stillness is broken when Reiner suddenly stands, letting his pencil fall to the floor as he mumbles, “Be back in a minute,” and takes three quick strides over to the door. He walks out into the hallway and closes it behind him, leaving Armin to stare after him with an expression of surprise.

“What is he –“ Armin begins, and stops abruptly when he turns to see Marco giving the closed door a pitying look.

“It’s not my place to talk about,” Marco says softly, eyes dropping to the homework on his lap. “Maybe we should work for a little while.”

* * *

 

He leaves the house at the same time as Reiner and Marco, bidding them goodbye as he begins to walk over to the Jaeger home. He takes special care to wave at Reiner, who hasn’t looked him in the eyes since he returned to Armin’s room and gave a transparent excuse about having to take a phone call. Reiner doesn’t return the gesture, instead ducking into Marco’s car as Marco gives Armin an apologetic look and mimes tipping his hat in Armin’s direction.

Armin turns back toward Eren’s house and smooths down the front of his shirt, a wave of anxiety hitting him as he reaches the bottom of the stoop and begins to ascend the steps toward the front door. He hears Marco beep his car horn as he drives past, but he doesn’t turn around. Raising a hand to ring the doorbell, he bounces a little on the balls of his feet, self-consciously wondering if he should have worn something besides an overlarge t-shirt and leggings.

At that moment, Carla Jaeger opens the door and envelopes him in a hug, effectively ending any possibility of running home to change. He doesn’t mind, though; the embrace is warm and familiar, something he hadn’t realized he missed. He tentatively hugs her back, relaxing into it.

“Armin!” she exclaims as she pulls away, gripping his shoulders and giving him a once-over before ushering him into the house. “It’s been months! How are you? How is school?”

“Mom,” Mikasa’s voice sounds from the top of the staircase. Armin looks up to see her smiling down at them. “Calm down.”

“Is Armin here?” someone else calls, more distant this time, and a grin forms on Armin’s face, a knee-jerk reaction to the sound of Eren’s voice. “I’ll be down in a second!”

Carla brushes invisible debris from his shoulders, motherly smile in place. “That child,” she says, and she can only be referring to Eren. “Thank god I have you and Mikasa to look after him.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Eren says as he comes to stand by Mikasa at the top of the stairs. “I have two fully-functioning ears.”

“And zero common sense,” Carla replies, surprising even Armin with her quickness. She reaches into the pocket of her pants and pulls out a ten-dollar bill, winking at Armin as she turns to flourish it at an approaching Eren. “I found this in your jeans, by the way.”

As he comes upon them, Eren snatches the bill from her hand. “You win this round, old lady,” he grumbles.

Armin delights in the playful atmosphere, so used to his big, silent house. The familial dynamic between Eren and his mother makes him ache a little inside, though he doesn’t want to delve too deeply into the motivation behind the feeling until he can do so alone. He looks between the two of them, grin still in place, and finds himself relieved that Eren at least has his mother and Mikasa.

“Oh!” Carla suddenly jumps, as if she’s remembered something. “The food is ready. Mikasa, get your dad.”

“No need, Carla,” Grisha Jaeger says as he steps into the front room. He walks forward until he’s able to put a hand on the small of Carla’s back and extend the other towards Armin. “Hi, Armin. It’s been awhile.”

“Hello, Mr. Jaeger,” Armin replies, taking his hand and shaking it for a brief moment. He feels Eren tense beside of him. “Thank you for dinner.”

Grisha releases his hand and gives him a once-over, his voice almost unnoticeably less enthusiastic when he answers, “We’re glad to have you.”

* * *

 

They’re halfway through the main course when things begin to go south.

“Did you see about Oklahoma on the news?” Grisha asks as he helps himself to another scoop of mashed potatoes. He pushes his glasses up his nose, giving Carla an exasperated look from his place at the head of the table. “They’re considering banning all marriages to prevent gay marriage from happening.”

Armin presses his mouth into a thin line and looks across the table to see that Eren has paled considerably, his hands stilling in the middle of cutting up a piece of roast.

“I didn’t see that,” Carla answers, taking a small sip of wine. She doesn’t say anything else, and Armin gets the feeling that she doesn’t want to have this conversation right now.

“It’s not the way to go about it, of course,” Grisha continues, and then tips his head appreciatively. “But I admire their pluck.”

“Dad,” Mikasa cuts in warningly from beside of Armin. “I thought we agreed to not talk about politics.”

With a laugh, Grisha bites into a dinner roll and leans forward. “Oh, but I’m sure that Armin is interested,” he says, and looks pointedly at the blonde. “He’s a smart boy. You don’t mind, do you?”

Armin can feel Eren staring at him as he tries to make his mouth work. Fighting against his rapidly blossoming internal panic, he shakes his head and says, “No, sir.”

Mikasa turns to look at him sharply, before directing her next words at Grisha. “He’s being polite,” she says. “No one wants to hear about that over dinner.”

From the other side of the table, Carla interrupts. “Now, you two,” she berates the both of them, exasperation apparent in her tone. She gestures between them with her fork and a threatening glance. “You’re not going to do this with a guest present.”

Flushing, Armin shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he mumbles, and only realizes that his hands are shaking when Mikasa reaches over to envelop them with one of her own. He looks up to see her giving him an analytical look, and he swallows, afraid that the quaver in his voice will betray the reason why he’s trembling. “Gramps loves to talk about politics.”

It’s a lie, of course; the little conversation that is exchanged between Armin and his grandfather is usually concerning school or, occasionally, the office where Adrian works. The only thing he knows about his grandfather’s political ideology is that Adrian voted for Barack Obama in both the 2008 and 2012 presidential elections, which is good enough for Armin.

“See?” Grisha says, pointing at Armin. “A teenager who knows how to listen when the adults are talking.”

That reminds Armin so much of Mr. Jackson that he feels sick to his stomach, but he remains quiet as Grisha continues.

“As I was saying, Turner and Kern and all of the others are being ridiculous about it. I don’t understand why they need to justify banning same-sex marriage by getting rid of marriage completely. It’s just common sense.”

“To you,” Mikasa murmurs.

He offers up a patronizing smile. “Well, let’s hear it, then, little miss. What do you think? ‘Love is love’, all that liberal bullshit?”

“Grisha –“ Carla begins, but he cuts her off by holding up a hand.

“How can you honestly believe that I’m wrong?” Grisha asks.

Armin’s breathing begins to speed up, his eyes lock on Eren, who refuses to look up as he pushes his food around his plate. Wanting desperately to comfort him in some way, Armin kneads his hands in front of him, feeling more helpless than he has in his entire life.

Beside of him, Mikasa laughs humorlessly. “I can believe that you’re wrong because you’re a bigot,” she nearly spits.

Now it’s Grisha’s turn to laugh, only this is one of genuine mirth. He knocks his fist against the table a few times, causing his silverware to bounce and exaggerate the movement. “A bigot, huh? A _bigot_? You think that this is about homophobia? Prejudice?” He takes a drink from his wineglass. “This about God, little girl.”

“You have _got_ to be kidding me –“

“ _Enough_ ,” Carla says, raising her voice enough that Eren actually looks up from his plate, mild surprise etched into his features. “You can eat in your room, if you’re going to behave like this.”

Grisha holds up both hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough.”

Silence follows that, and Armin composes himself enough to take a bite of his food. He immediately wants to spit it out, though, his stomach rolling as he and Eren meet eyes across the table. Eren’s normally tan skin is now of an unbelievable pallor, almost green under the dining room lights, and Armin tries to mentally communicate that _it’s alright, it’s alright, we’ll go home after this, you’ll be safe there_ \--

“So,” Grisha begins, then, and Armin braces himself for it when he continues, “What do _you_ think, Eren?”

“Oh, _Jesus Christ_ ,” Mikasa says, standing, her silverware clattering to her plate. She grabs her scarf from the back of her chair and wraps it around her neck. “I’m not listening to this anymore.”

“ _Mikasa_ ,” Carla gasps, standing with her daughter. Her brows furrow in anger, and Armin realizes that Carla Jaeger is still under the impression that this dinner is salvageable. “Sit down.”

But Mikasa is already heading through the doorway. Armin turns to watch her go, pulse rabbiting in his chest, and he is suddenly, intensely afraid for her and what will happen when she comes back. He hears the front door open and then slam, the sound echoing throughout the house with an incredible sort of finality.

“She’ll learn,” Grisha pipes up.

Armin feels a strange mixture of fear and anger stirring in the pit of his stomach, and he just barely stifles the urge to grab Eren and run until they’re safe in his room, with feet and yards and walls between the two of them and Eren’s sorry excuse for a father.

Carla’s voice is tremulous when she speaks. “You knew what you were doing. We can’t even have a family dinner without the two of you initiating World War Three.”

Grisha just laughs. “She’ll learn,” he repeats, and picks up his empty wine glass. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I need something stronger.”

* * *

 

When all is said and done, Armin stands on the stoop while Eren lingers in the doorway, the taller boy glancing behind himself at intermittent points during their stilted conversation.

“I’m sorry,” Eren says quietly, fiddling with the knob. “I didn’t realize it would be that bad. I thought that he would – tone it down, or something.”

“It’s okay,” Armin replies, and when he reaches for Eren’s hand the other boy draws back quickly, as if he’s been scalded. Understanding washes over Armin, and he nods, taking a step back before he asks, “Are you coming over?”

Eren just closes the door.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh sorry this took so long!!! school is a drag
> 
> anyways, thanks to laura and beth for being my cheerleaders and for putting up w/ All My Bullshit!! ily
> 
> warnings for anxiety and mentions of homophobia!!
> 
> also listen to "riptide" by vance joy it was on repeat the entire time i was writing this
> 
> ((follow me at erwinslevi.tumblr.com))

The sound of his phone ringing wakes Armin up the next morning. His ringtone starts itself over three different times, and he hurriedly snatches it from the bedside table to see that he’s received three text messages from Eren, one after the other. He holds his breath as he opens them, his eyes still bleary after eight hours of restless half-sleep.

 _i’m sorry_ , the first one reads, followed by,  _i didn’t want him to think._

The third is more of an enigma, vague enough that it has Armin’s stomach churning with unease.

_can you meet me at the school?_

Armin stares at the screen for a few seconds before sitting up fully, chewing on his lower lip as he re-reads the last of the texts. A distant sort of fear settles close to his heart when he contemplates the motivation behind it; he and Eren have had plenty of private conversations in Armin’s room, and the fact that Eren feels the need to find somewhere remote to discuss what happened at dinner has his palms sweating around his phone.

He stands, then, and walks over to his dresser to begin pulling a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt from the top drawer. His movements are mechanical, his body accommodating his mental preoccupation by letting muscle memory take over for long enough to get dressed.

It occurs to him that he should have tried to talk to Eren last night, should have called or texted or done  _something_ to reassure him. He left the Jaeger house with Eren’s pallid face looming in the back of his mind, and he can’t help but regret letting their conversation end the way it did. As uncomfortable as his night was, he can only imagine the tossing and turning done by Eren himself.

With a resigned sigh, he snags his keys from their place on his desk and sets off toward the door, unable to stifle the worry that has his heart in an iron grip.

* * *

 

The school parking lot is deserted save for one car, and Armin immediately recognizes it as belonging to Carla Jaeger. Eren leans against it, fingers laced together behind his head as he stares at the ground. He looks up when Armin pulls into the nearest parking spot, bringing his hands around to scrub lightly at his face before waving in a gesture so manufactured that Armin almost wants to turn the car around.

Armin kills the engine and climbs out of the driver’s seat, pulling his jacket around himself in the late September breeze. He schools his expression into one of careful composure and braces himself for what’s coming as he rounds the front of the car and comes to a stop a few feet from Eren. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he shakes a few loose strands of hair out of his face, waiting for the other boy to speak.

Eren presses his mouth into a thin, contemplative line. His nose is pink with the cold, his brow furrowed against the wind. “I don’t know what to do,” he says eventually, the words followed by a shaky sigh. “I don’t know how to talk about this.”

The sound of Eren’s voice instills within Armin enough bravery to take a few steps toward him. He wishes that he could do so with confidence, with the air of someone who is sure of himself and his surroundings; he imagines that it looks very much like prey approaching its wounded predator, like Eren’s vulnerability depends solely on the space between them.

“You know,” Eren begins after another moment, his eyes distant. “I grew up hearing it all. We grew up with this.” Reaching up to drag a hand through his hair, he pushes off of the car and looks carefully at the trees that border the parking lot. He nods to himself, an affirmation, and continues, “I never really listened to any of it, especially after I met you, because – because you were different. I’ve known that since the sixth grade.”

Armin inhales sharply, hands clenching at his sides. Aside from that, he remains still.

“I hear it from my father a few times a week, I hear it in the halls.” A ragged laugh escapes Eren, so high that it’s reaching for hysteria. “Until – until we –“

In an apparent effort to compose himself, Eren closes his eyes and shakes his head, his breathing becoming a little more steady as a few seconds pass. Armin still doesn’t move, unsure as to whether or not Eren has space enough to let himself have this conversation. He itches to touch Eren, so used to their tactile method of emotional support, but he forces himself to stay rooted to the spot and watch his best friend struggle for words.

“Until the other night,” is what Eren finally settles for, and he doesn’t have to specify which night he’s referring to; Armin’s mind is suddenly overrun with the image of Eren fisting his hair, eyes shining in the glow of the streetlights that line the parking lot that they’re currently standing in. “I never paid any attention to what people were saying, and now I’m just. I’m fucking  _terrified_.” He opens his eyes to look at Armin, and they are alight with both sincerity and fear. “I’ve always stood up for myself – stood up for  _you_  – but not this time. Not last night.”

A lump forming in his throat, Armin closes the distance between the two of them, careful not to startle Eren by moving too quickly. “You shouldn’t have to,” he replies. He swallows, feeling pressure begin to build behind his eyes. “You  _don’t_  have to, you just. Need to look out for yourself.”

“That’s why I wanted you to come,” Eren says, voice quavering in the slightest. “That’s why I didn’t go home with you last night. I can’t let myself have that right now. I can’t be  _this_.” He gestures at the empty air with one hand, like he’s talking about something outside of himself. “My dad. My  _mom_ ,” he croaks. “I know that we butt heads all the time but – like, this isn’t a situation where we fight and I get to slam the door and then come down for dinner. I don’t have a  _choice_.”

The intent behind his words dawns on Armin, and his eyes close with the weight of it. Crossing his arms, he lets his head fall forward and begins to count in his mind –  _uno, dos, tres, test on Tuesday, numbers to twenty, llevar conjugations and clothing articles_  – like that will do anything to suppress the dread that suddenly has a grasp on his heart. He realizes that he’s been holding onto hope this entire time, that he’s been entertaining the possibility that Eren could love him back, but Eren’s words have undone that faith entirely by thrusting him back into the reality of their circumstances. Nothing is okay, and he admonishes himself for thinking that it could be, for daring to reimagine the situation as something other than what it really is: the one person who could ever bring himself to love Armin is in no position to do so.

“I don’t – this isn’t like last time,” Eren says, interrupting his thoughts as his earnest gaze bores into Armin’s. He says it like a promise, like he knows what it will do to Armin – to  _both_ of them – if he falls off of the face of the earth again. “I’m not going to stop talking to you. I’m not going anywhere.” A brief pause. “We just can’t keep. You know.”

It’s simultaneously a comfort and a crushing blow – the former because Armin will still have his best friend, the latter because they will be a watered-down version of their former selves, bereft of their casual affection and easy rapport. Unlike the fallout after their first kiss, this feels as if it may be a permanent stain on their friendship, like there isn’t any hope of salvaging it completely. Armin isn’t sure if he’ll be able to cope with that, with hesitance and evasiveness and false, subdued smiles like the one that Eren is sporting as he appears to wait for Armin’s response.

He isn’t sure if he’ll be able to cope with that, but he will anyway; he’s gotten good at pretending.

“Okay,” he finally replies, his throat so constricted that he can barely get it out. Choosing his next words carefully, Armin grabs Eren’s hand and squeezes it tightly in his own. The gesture is one of solidarity, though he can’t help but tremble as he looks up at the other boy. “I need my best friend.”

He half-expects Eren to pull away, to enact the new boundaries of their friendship at this very moment, but he suddenly pulls Armin against him, fitting the smaller boy’s head beneath his chin. His arms are tight around his shoulders, leaving a surprised Armin no choice but to lean into the embrace with all he has, his own arms coming to encase Eren’s middle. Armin presses his face into Eren’s chest, fighting to regulate his breathing when he feels Eren’s mouth open in a soundless cry against the top of his head. The taller boy’s shoulders heave with it, and Armin can feel the onset of panic blooming behind his ribs as he realizes that Eren is actually crying.

Armin clutches at Eren’s back, fingers scrabbling for purchase against the slippery material of his jacket. He tries to speak, but he can’t make his mouth work. It doesn’t matter, he supposes, as he isn’t sure of what he could possibly say; there aren’t words adequate enough to convey how sorry he is for Eren, how sorry he is for  _himself_ , and so he simply holds the other boy and allows himself to succumb to the tears that have been threatening to fall ever since Eren closed the door in his face last night.

They stand like that for an indefinite amount of time, clinging to one another as the morning sunshine gives way to a more complete sort of daylight, heat beating down on them but failing to put an end to their hold on each other. Armin dissolves entirely in those moments, letting himself weep openly into Eren’s shoulder. He weeps for himself, for his grandfather and his mother and for the anxiety that has lodged itself, like a tumor, into his every thought and action. He weeps for the memory of Marco’s hands on Jean’s clammy face. He weeps for Erwin, and for Vice Principal Levi, and for Eren, who hangs onto him so tightly that it hurts.

Eventually, they pull apart, their red faces and watering eyes mirroring one another as they step out of the embrace. Eren presses a soft kiss to Armin’s forehead, and Armin’s lower lip trembles as he accepts it. He casts his eyes downward and blinks back the lingering moisture, not wanting to look at Eren for fear of beginning to cry all over again.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” Eren says quietly.

When Armin just nods, Eren reaches up to grab the underside of the shorter boy’s chin, tilting his head up so that they’re looking directly at one another. Armin clenches his jaw, his fingers splaying out by his sides as his gaze meets Eren’s head-on. He swallows hard, but it does nothing to clear the obstruction in his raw throat.

“You know you’re my best friend, right?” Eren asks, speaking more loudly now; it’s almost authoritative, as if he won’t take anything other than an affirmation. “This isn’t it for us.”

Armin smiles weakly, a small, choked noise emitting from his mouth. “It feels like it.”

* * *

 

When Armin gets back home, his grandfather has left for the day. Armin isn’t sure as to where he’s gone, but he’s grateful for Adrian’s absence, eager to avoid any uncomfortable questions concerning his appearance. In the rearview mirror, he can see that a combination of bloodshot eyes, blotchy cheeks, and disheveled hair has made him look completely unfit for even the most casual of interactions, and he isn’t prepared to answer for anything that has happened this morning.

His feet are dragging behind him by the time he’s made the trip from his car to his bedroom. Despite the fact that no one is home, he closes the door behind him as quietly as possible, the lock clicking with soft finality. Shoulders slumped, he lingers there, fingers poised against the wood grain as he lets his forehead fall forward. Like so many times before, he closes his eyes and begins to silently recite odd facts and figures, SAT words and important dates; unlike those times, however, his mind stumbles over the equations and vocabulary, his crowded consciousness not allowing room for anything other than the memory of how it felt to have Eren clutching at him in the middle of the parking lot.

He turns around to stare at his empty room; at his bed, where only a few nights ago Eren had been lying, hands folded behind his head, as he quizzed Armin on his geometry postulates. He aches a little with the recollection, with the pieces of Eren that litter his room – a t-shirt on the floor, a graded chemistry assignment on the desk. His best friend is still a tangible presence in the house, like everything is waiting for him to return.

He has to remind himself that Eren hasn’t  _died_ , or even broken all ties with Armin, but that thought does nothing to abate the hollow sensation behind his ribs. His home hasn’t felt this empty since the death of his parents, since his grandfather first moved in and every word they exchanged for a month felt like a condolence; being here, he finds, is nearly unbearable.

Even so, he shrugs his jacket off of his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor as he walks toward the bed. Kicking his shoes off, he climbs onto the mattress and begins to slip under the covers. He pulls the blanket up and over his head to block out the minimal sunlight filtering in from the window. Letting his eyes fall closed, he settles against the pillows and makes a futile attempt to ignore the vacant space beside of him.

 _The bed is cold without him_ , he thinks, and buries his face in his hands.

* * *

 

The entire weekend is spent in bed, with Armin’s phone plugged up to the stereo and blaring an upsetting amalgamation of the saddest songs he can stand listening to. Selections from  _Les Miserables_ blend almost effortlessly with Sigur Ros and his coffeehouse collection, and he lies under his comforter and sings along during the ones that Eren likes most.

Somewhere inside of himself, he knows that it’s pathetic – selfish, even, considering the severity of Eren’s situation when compared with his own. Though his grandfather hasn’t offered up any perspective regarding Armin’s sexuality, a negative reaction from Adrian wouldn’t be in any way analogous to Grisha Jaeger’s inevitable explosion. He and his grandfather simply co-exist, their interactions limited to  _hellos_ and  _goodbyes_ and the occasional conversation over dinner; Grisha, on the other hand, is an unavoidable presence in Eren’s life, with his loud opinions and loyalty to the role of Iron-Fisted Patriarch.

He should  _be there_ for Eren, but the thought of even looking at his best friend has him near tears and shouting along to The Smiths. He’s in no position to be comforting anyone right now, especially when he’s the reason Eren is having such a difficult time in the first place. That helplessness only contributes to Armin’s plummeting sense of worth, and it occurs to him that Eren deserves someone who is brave; someone who doesn’t cry over geometry tests, who doesn’t wallow in self-pity to the tune of Justin Vernon’s entire discography.

He discovers an even weaker version of himself during that time, and it’s probably a good thing that he’s shaken awake on Monday morning to find Marco Bodt standing over him, eyes wide with urgency.

Armin just stares at the other boy for a moment, mind lagging considerably as he surfaces from sleep. His brow furrows with groggy confusion as Marco jostles his shoulder, his brain trying to make up for his lack of comprehension by bringing every detail of Marco’s face into sharp definition when his eyes open fully.

“Armin!” Marco exclaims. “Armin, it’s 7:50!”

At that, Armin shoots up out of the bed, limbs flailing as he turns to look at the clock. After a split-second, he confirms that, yes, it  _is_ 7:50, and he is going to be unbelievably late for school. The fact that his first period is gym does little to soothe his sudden concern, and he scrambles off of the bed, nearly hitting Marco in the process, before landing gracelessly on his feet and stumbling over to his dresser.

“Shit,” he hisses. He pulls the drawer open and surveys its contents. “My alarm didn’t go off. I – I forgot to set it.” Spotting his favorite floral-print tee, he reaches in to grab it before turning to Marco. “What are you doing here?”

As Armin pulls the t-shirt over his head, Marco approaches him from the side, his gait cautious. “I’ve been waiting outside. You didn’t answer any of my texts,” he answers slowly. “I asked about dinner, but Mikasa –“

“What did Mikasa say?” Armin interrupts, an edge to his voice. He ignores the tightness in his chest, refusing to recognize it for what it is – hope that Eren might have mentioned it. Mentioned  _him_.

“She just told me about the things that Mr. Jaeger said.” Marco visibly wavers between keeping his hands at his side and placing a comforting palm on Armin’s shoulder. After a moment’s deliberation, he goes with the latter, and Armin flinches slightly at the contact before relaxing into it. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to sit through that.”

Armin shakes his head as he chooses a pair of leggings from the dresser. “Can you turn around?” he asks, and, when Marco complies, begins to strip down to his boxer-briefs. “Anyways. I may have had to sit through it, but Eren –“

He stops abruptly, taking a second to shakily inhale and rein himself in; he doesn’t want Marco to have to see him as he’s been for the past few days, week and cowardly and small.

“He has to deal with it on a daily basis,” he finishes as he tugs the leggings over his hips. “You can turn around again.”

Marco does so, his face awash with a queer mixture of pity and sympathy. “Is he okay?” he asks, and the hesitance in his tone tells Armin that he already knows the answer to that question.

Armin swallows. “I’ll tell you about it in the car.”

* * *

 

It’s 8:25 when Armin walks into his first period P.E. class, and he does so with trepidation, looking around the gym for any sign of Eren. He’s clutching a tardy slip from the main office in his fist, nervously flicking his thumb over the corners of it as he approaches Coach Zacharias, who is currently shouting toward a group of roughhousing boys.

“Coach Zacharias?” he asks tentatively, extending the note toward the taller man.

The coach turns to regard him with a confused expression. He glances down at the paper in Armin’s hand and takes it from him, squinting as he brings it closer to his face. “I was wondering where you were,” he says, startling Armin with the information. After a bit more inspection, he looks up. “Jaeger with you?”

Blinking up at him, Armin feels his face twist in befuddlement. “What?”

“Eren Jaeger is absent,” Zacharias explains, prompting Armin to send a quick look around the gym again. “I thought maybe he was with you.”

Armin shakes his head slowly, beginning to chew on his lower lip as he considers everything that that could mean. He’s sure that Mikasa would have called had anything disastrous happened, but even the thought that Eren could simply be skipping school in order to avoid him weighs heavily on Armin. Something akin to dread pervades his senses, and rocks nervously on the balls of his feet as he waits for Coach Zacharias to reply.

“Well, I guess he’s sick,” the older man finally says, looking down at his clipboard and scribbling something illegible in the center of the page. “Well. We’re doing a free day today – I’ve got a lot of grading to do for my driver’s ed class – so you can work on homework, if you’d like. Or you can just nap.” Without raising his head, he indicates a patch of gym floor that is occupied by several students, all of whom are reclined, their heads resting on their backpacks and purses. “I wouldn’t recommend it. The floors haven’t been swept all weekend.”

At the mention of homework, Armin feels a distant pang of alarm. When he tries to identify the root of it, however, he comes up with nothing, and so he says a quick thank-you to the coach before heading to the bleachers for a quick study session with his Spanish book.

* * *

School without Eren is ineffably lonely, Armin finds. Even when he and Eren had avoided each other following their first kiss, the simple knowledge that Eren was there offered a sort of comfort in and of itself. He can’t recall the last time his friend missed a day of school, and that has him gnawing on his lower lip as he goes about completing his work. When also considering the terms on which they last parted, Armin feels sick to his stomach, convinced that Eren may have been trying to preserve Armin’s feelings when he insisted that they were still best friends.

Mikasa doesn’t mention Eren’s absence during second period, but Armin catches her looking at him when she thinks that he’s not paying attention. He figures that she must have some idea as to what is going on between the two of them, which makes him ceaselessly uncomfortable as he tries to stare forward and pretend that he doesn’t notice her scrutiny. If she senses his distress, she doesn’t indicate as much, and he hates it; hates the silent, evasive conversation that lies below the few words that they do exchange during the hour-and-a-half that they spend in geometry, the fact that Mikasa’s every question regarding the lesson sounds like  _what’s wrong?_

Their goodbyes are a little less cheerful than usual, and Armin avoids the look of concern and confusion that Erwin sends his way as he leaves the classroom.

Lunch is spent in silence. He feels a little more at ease with his Spanish test out of the way, but he still isn’t able to force himself to eat; the lack of conversation and casual touch lays waste to his appetite when coupled with the knowledge that he still has two hours to go before he can go home and crawl into bed.

When the bell signaling fourth period sounds, Armin gathers his things and makes his way toward the English classroom with leaden feet. He dreads this class every day, but his disdain for Mr. Jackson and his teaching methods has only been heightened as the day has progressed. The need to go home and stare at his ceiling for a few hours grows with each passing minute, and time always seems to move more slowly in Mr. Jackson’s class.

As soon as he enters, his reluctance to do so is immediately validated.

 _HAMLET ACT I SCENES I AND II QUIZ TODAY_ , reads Mr. Jackson’s blackboard, and Armin feels his chest seize up, the breath leaving his lungs in one quick exhale. He freezes near the row of desks closest to the entrance, clutching his books to his torso as he stares at the board in horror.

 _Oh my god, oh my god, fuck, fuck, I forgot_ , he inwardly rambles, panic setting in as he begins to move toward his seat. He’s suffocating with it, desperately combing his brain for anything he could have gleaned from the summary on the back of his copy of the play. While he’d managed to remember his Spanish test, he completely forgot to do his reading, and he mentally crucifies himself for allowing a personal dilemma to get in the way of his studies.  _I’m going to fail. I’m going to be sick._

He sits down at his desk just as the late bell rings, his hands clenching around his binders when Mr. Jackson begins to call roll. His voice is barely audible when the teacher reaches  _Arlert_ , and his heart pounds so loudly in his ears that he can’t hear the rest of the attendance as he turns his attention to the stack of books before him. In his mind’s eye, he sees the copy of  _Hamlet_ lying on his bedside table.

 _I’m going to be sick_ , he thinks again.

“Alright,” Mr. Jackson says, rubbing his palms together as he stands from his computer chair. “Clear everything off of your desk. You’ll need a pencil.”

Armin’s movements are stilted as he follows the instruction, his mind devoid of anything other than a long succession of swearwords. A sheet of paper is placed on his desk. He stares at it.

_1\. Who is the speaker of this line in Act I, Scene I? ‘Most like. It harrows me with fear and wonder.’_

  1. _A._ _Horatio_
  2. _B._ _Marcellus_
  3. _C._ _Hamlet_
  4. _D._ _The Ghost_



Tears form in Armin’s eyes as he looks down at the quiz. He reaches up to run a hand through his messy hair, scraping his nails along his scalp as if that might will an answer on the paper. It occurs to him that he has a one-in-four chance of getting this particular question right, of getting  _every_ question right. Those odds are so hopeless that Armin is tempted to tear the test to shreds and accept a zero; it will, at least, save him the embarrassment of turning in and receiving a graded copy of the physical manifestation of his own incompetence.

His self-preservation immediately overpowers that notion, and he hesitantly circles the letter ‘A.’

By the time Mr. Jackson asks for the quizzes to be handed in, Armin has both hands fisted in his hair, his gaze zeroed in on the last question. His vision is blurry, and a drop of moisture falls to the paper before he feels it being tugged out from under where his elbow pins it to the desk. Jackson doesn’t spare him a second glance as he moves onto the next person, and Armin closes his eyes for a few seconds before turning around.

“Mr. Jackson,” he begins, attempting to subdue the increasing rapidity of his breathing. “May I go to the bathroom?”

“Hm?” Jackson hums. When he glances up from the stack of papers in his hands, there’s an amused glint in his eyes, and he nods shortly at Armin. “Certainly. Make it quick.”

Completely disregarding the last part of his sentence, Armin stands and makes his way toward the door, taking good care to avoid looking at Marco as he does so. He lowers his head as he steps out into the hall, knotting his hands in the hem of his shirt as he begins to make his way toward the English department bathrooms. He doesn’t cross paths with anyone, but he is still careful not to look up from the tile floor as he puts a safe distance between himself and Mr. Jackson’s class.

He’s thankful for it when he finds that the men’s room is deserted. He heads straight for the stall farthest from the door and finds a sort of lackluster sanctuary once he’s locked inside. Slowly, he puts the lid of the toilet down and takes a seat, bringing his knees up to his chest as he gazes blankly at the closed stall door.

Now that he’s alone, Armin expects to be completely overcome by the events of the past few days; however, he can only sit in silence as his recent personal failures wash over him, each one numbing him a little more than the last. He can feel that he’s on the brink of a real meltdown, that the relative calm enveloping him is nothing more than a temporary veneer, and he takes a deep breath before kicking the stall door with all of the force he can muster, the bottom of his foot stinging as the noise echoes throughout the bathroom. He drags his hands down his face and looks up to the ceiling, his unfocused stare trained on the places where the foam panels are the most worn.

“Armin?” a soft voice asks, and he immediately tenses when he recognizes it as belonging to Mikasa. The quiet rap of knuckles against the stall door contrasts dramatically with the sound produced by his kick. “Armin, I know you’re in there.”

He doesn’t speak.

“I’ll crawl under the door,” she says. “I’ll tear it off of its hinges if I have to.”

Armin feels his lower lip tremble, and he climbs off of the toilet to comply, hands unsteady as he slides lock and lets the door swing open.

He braces himself for a gasp, or wide eyes, or any other indication that she’s alarmed, but Mikasa’s expression is that of someone who has never been faced with anything less unsurprising. Her arms are folded over her chest, her mouth a thin line as she looks him up and down and takes a step closer.

“Marco sent me a text,” she says without preamble, reaching up to cup the side of Armin’s face in an uncharacteristically tactile gesture. “He said that you left class looking really upset.”

Nodding, Armin feels fresh moisture budding at the corners of his eyes; only now, his previous sadness is joined by a greater sense of humiliation. He can hardly to stand to meet Mikasa’s earnest gaze, instead choosing to look at the space behind her as he brings a hand up to wipe away the single tear that spills over onto his cheek.

She takes her hand away from his face and glances behind herself, as if she’s checking to see if anyone is watching. “You can’t go back to class like this.”

Armin isn’t quite sure what  _like this_ means, but he can only imagine what he must look like to Mikasa. He guesses that it’s probably similar to the state he’d been in following his talk with Eren on Saturday morning, only notably less hysterical. His cheeks burn as he waits for her to continue.

“Mr. Smith has fourth period planning,” she says, looking at him levelly. “Do you want to go to his room?”

The question surprises Armin; as far as he is aware, Mikasa doesn’t know anything about his talks with Erwin, apart from the fact that they happened. He hasn’t divulged any details, but he supposes that he might be more obviously at-ease around the older man that he’d initially thought. Mikasa tends to pick up on things that others don’t, hence his current situation, and he wonders what else she’s worked out on her own.

With another small nod, he says, “Yes.” His voice cracks a little on the word, and he clears his throat before repeating, more clearly, “Yes.”

She takes his hand and leads him out of the bathroom. Armin follows without protest, idly wondering whether or not Mr. Jackson will send someone to get him if he doesn’t come back. He thinks, bitterly, that he probably won’t; Mr. Jackson’s regard for students begins and ends with the classroom, and even then his only care seems to be for making their experience as miserable as possible.

Still, he looks back toward the English classroom as they set off toward Mr. Smith’s, anxiously looking out for the sight of a wandering classmate or Jackson himself.

Erwin is sitting at his desk when they arrive, his head bent over his grade book. He looks up as they step into the room, a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose. Sliding them off, he begins to stand, face instantly clouding with concern when his eyes land on Armin.

“Hello,” Erwin says, and looks at Mikasa for the first time since they walked in. “Is everything alright?”

Armin just looks at the ground.

Erwin crosses the room in a few large strides, brows knitting together as he approaches. One hand comes to cradle Armin’s elbow as he stops in front of them, and he levels a gaze at the blonde. “What happened?” he asks, and Armin feels his heart soar with affection at the subtle hint of anger in the taller man’s tone. “Did someone hurt you?”

Shaking his head, Armin finally looks at his teacher. “I – no, not that. It’s.” He pauses, feeling the weight of Mikasa’s stare as he tries to muster the correct words to convey exactly what he wants to. “Not good. Things are not good.”

Erwin bobs his head knowingly and gestures toward the nearest seat. “Let’s talk about it,” he says, tossing a quick glance toward Mikasa. “Is it okay if Miss Ackerman is present for this? I’ll speak with both of your teachers.”

Not for the first time, Armin is slightly disturbed by the image of Erwin interacting with his English teacher. “Yes,” he affirms, closing his hand tightly over Mikasa’s. “It’s fine.”

“Well,” Erwin says as the three of them sit down. “Go ahead. Whenever you’re ready.”

When Armin starts talking, it’s hard to stop; he relates the details of his dinner at the Jaegers, aware of the fact that Mikasa’s eyes are burning a hole in the side of his face as he speaks. When he talks about the next morning, he leaves Eren’s name and several details out of it, instead choosing to refer to him as “the boy I like” and trying his hardest not to let his eyes betray the meaning behind the words. He’s aware that it’s as good as a confession to Mikasa, but he honestly isn’t sure as to why he’s kept his sexuality a secret from her for so long, anyway. He looks at her when he first mentions the boy, taking comfort in the fact that she doesn’t even blink.

His voice is a little quieter when he gets to the part about the quiz; this, Armin is ashamed of, and he can only stare at his feet as he talks about it. The constant flush in his cheeks only deepens when he explains that he’d forgotten about studying because of what happened over the weekend. Erwin just nods in understanding, though, his eyes softening for the first time since he mentioned Grisha’s rampant homophobia. Armin almost can’t stand the compassion in his gaze, as it’s too reminiscent of the way Eren has always looked at him when he’s upset.

“So, you know,” Armin finishes, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and letting out a little laugh, “I’m just overreacting. Again.”

“Armin –“ Mikasa begins, but Erwin interrupts her by reaching forward to place his palm over Armin’s hand where it rests on the table.

“Do not,” Erwin says steadily, “ever think that you’re overreacting to homophobia. While your concern for your grades is understandable, your outrage toward Mikasa’s father is  _absolutely_  justified. It’s a horrifying thing, having to listen to someone tell you that you are disgusting or wrong, and I’m sorry.” He looks between the two of them. “I’m sorry for  _both_ of you.”

Armin exhales slowly, knowing that Erwin means every word of what he says. He isn’t sure how obvious it is to Mikasa, but it is crystal clear to Armin in that moment: to Erwin, there is a terrible familiarity in Armin’s fear, and he can see the weight of it settling on the older man’s broad shoulders.

“Thank you,” Mikasa says quietly from beside of him, and she’s looking right at Armin. “Thank you.”


End file.
